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OF 

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OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


BOOKS    BY    RENE    BAZIN 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


"This,  My  Son" $1.26 

(Lee  Noelleta) 

The  Nun $1.00 

(L'Isotee) 

The  Coming  Harvest $1.25 

(Le  B16  qui  Lfeve) 

Redemption    .       , $1.25 

(De  toute  son  Ame) 


THIS,    MY  SON 


"THIS,  MY  SON" 

(LES  NOELLETS) 

BY 

RENfi   BAZIN 

AUTHOK  OF  "«EDEMPTION,"  "THE  NUN,"  "THE  COMING  HAJtVEST,"  ETC. 

TRANSLATED   BY 

DR.  A.  S.  RAPPOPORT 

NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1909 

COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


PQ 


THIS,    MY  SON 


"THIS,   MY   SON." 


PART  THE  FIRST. 


CHAPTER  I. 


IT  was  an  October  evening,  sad  as  they  always 
are.  There  was  a  death-dealing  moisture  in  the 
air;  the  leaves  fell  as  if  weary  of  life,  and  lay  un- 
stirred by  the  faintest  breeze.  Flocks  of  birds 
were  flying  home  to  their  nests,  and  up  the  steep 
roadway,  one  of  the  hollow  roads  of  the  Angevin 
Vende"e,  along  which  the  storm  sweeps,  and  where 
the  goats  find  pasture,  a  young  lad,  mounted  on 
his  mare,  la  Huasse,  was  also  making  his  way 
back  to  the  farm. 

La  Huasse,  with  her  rough  white  coat,  her  large 
belly  worn  bare  by  the  harness,  and  her  cropped 
mane,  which  gave  her  the  appearance  of  a  screech- 
owl,  had  outgrown  her  beauty.  She  moved  for- 
ward with  the  resigned  gait  of  an  old  servitor, 
used  to  toil,  dragging  the  hanging  traces  of  her 
collar  along  the  ground,  while  her  foal  gambolled 
ahead  like  a  wild  young  fawn.  Her  rider  left  her 

i 


2  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

to  choose  her  own  pace.  He  and  she  were  of 
about  the  same  age.  How  many  times  since  he 
first  saw  the  light  fifteen  years  ago  had  she  not 
borne  him  on  her  back,  in  the  same  phlegmatic 
and  maternal  manner!  And  now  they  were  com- 
panions in  labour.  All  day  they  had  been  to- 
gether driving  the  harrow  over  the  low-lying 
lands.  The  heat  had  been  great,  and  the  clods 
of  earth  hard.  They  were  both  tired.  And  so 
he  let  the  gentle  beast  go  as  slowly  as  she  liked, 
with  her  eyes  half  shut,  while  he,  with  his  head 
rising  above  the  hedge  into  the  full  light,  gazed 
tranquilly  over  the  magnificent  country  which 
claimed  him  as  its  child. 

To  his  left  was  the  steep  slope  of  the  hill-side, 
with  the  alder-bordered  Evre  at  its  foot  winding 
round  a  wooded  hillock;  beyond  were  the  fields, 
and  further  off  still  was  the  opposite  slope,  rising 
to  where  the  white  Mansion  of  Le  Vigneau  crowned 
it  like  an  aigrette.  To  the  right  the  view  differed; 
here  the  fields  rose  in  regular  curves,  marked  by 
long  bands  of  cultivated  land,  the  various  colours 
of  the  vegetation  blending  more  and  more  as  the 
light  declined.  Pierre  knew  the  owners  of  each 
patch — the  stubble-field  with  its  two  rows  of  apple 
trees;  the  field  sown  with  large  cabbages  where 
the  partridges  call  to  one  another;  the  fallow 
land  whence  arose  the  odour  of  newly-turned 
earth.  Like  a  young  apprentice  beginning  to 
have  an  opinion  of  his  own  about  matters,  he 
thought  the  paternal  farm  was  better  cultivated, 
better  manured  than  others  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  that  it  stood  unrivalled  among  them  for  its 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  3 

good  ploughing  and  its  fine  harvests.  And  what 
wonder  that  it  was  so!  The  neighbours  were  all 
more  or  less  hampered  by  having  to  work  for 
others,  and  by  being  so  heavily  rented,  while  his 
father ! 

He  had  now  reached  the  first  field  of  La  Geni- 
viere.  An  illimitable  extent  of  landscape  was 
here  visible.  Through  the  opening  of  the  valley 
the  distant  hills  rose  one  above  the  other,  and  could 
be  seen  as  far  as  Geste  and  Saint  Philbert-en- 
Mauges,  the  spires  visible  finely  delineated  against 
the  sky,  and  the  woods  looking  like  masses  of 
violet  mist.  Many  little  villages,  with  their  roofs 
of  ribbed  tiles,  lay  dotted  about  glistening  in  the 
last  rays  of  the  sun. 

Sounds  crossed  one  another:  the  cocks  called 
from  the  farms  and  the  blackbirds  from  the 
brookside ;  there  was  a  rumbling  of  carts,  a  barking 
of  dogs  being  let  loose;  now  voices  called  from 
the  houses  summoning  the  men  who  were  far 
afield  and  late  in  returning  home;  or  a  footstep 
sounded  one  hardly  knew  where,  its  echo  dead- 
ened by  the  grass  and  soon  dying  away.  Overhead 
the  stars  were  beginning  to  shine,  and  the  im- 
mense calm  of  night  was  gradually  descending 
upon  the  land  of  La  Vendee. 

Having  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  Pierre 
Noellet,  before  descending  to  La  Geniviere, 
paused  in  his  ride,  and  drawing  himself  up,  turned 
his  eyes  toward  a  black  mass,  which  darkly 
blotted  the  twilight  sky.  It  was  La  Landehue, 
standing  in  the  shadow  of  its  fine  old  trees.  A 
light  was  burning  in  one  of  the  windows.  "They 


4  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

are  back,"  thought  the  boy,  and  his  eyes  bright- 
ened as  he  smiled.  Would  you  know  why?  It 
was  just  a  child's  joy,  a  childish  recollection.  It 
had  been  so  melancholy  all  the  summer  to  see  the 
house  shut  up,  with  no  master,  and  no  life  about 
the  place.  For  the  first  time  Monsieur  Laubriet 
had  spent  the  fine  season  away  from  La  Landehue. 
And,  the  master  absent,  there  had  been  no  long 
trains  of  carriages,  no  visitors,  no  hunting,  no 
blowing  of  horns.  But  now  the  owners  of  the 
house  had  returned,  for  there  was  undoubted 
proof  of  it. 

Pierre  Noellet  was  pleased,  and  digging  his  heels 
into  la  Huasse,  he  began  to  whistle  a  country  tune 
by  way  of  giving  notice  of  his  arrival. 

At  that  very  moment,  Monsieur  Laubriet  was 
entering  the  yard  of  La  Geniviere,  which  was 
formed  of  three  buildings:  the  barn  which  ran 
alongside  the  road;  and  at  right  angles  to  this 
building,  and  separated  from  it  by  a  passage,  the 
farmer's  dwelling  house  on  the  one  side  and  the 
stables  and  cow-sheds  on  the  other.  The  fourth 
side  was  open  to  the  view,  and  from  this  point, 
looking  over  the  tops  of  the  trees  which  covered 
the  descending  slope  of  the  Evre  ravine,  could  be 
seen  the  wide-spreading  valley. 

The  lord  of  the  manor  was  fond  of  the  situation 
of  La  Geniviere,  a  farmstead  which  had  formerly 
belonged  to  his  wife's  family,  but  he  was  fonder 
still  of  the  farmer,  who  was  one  of  the  best  and 
richest  men  of  the  country.  He  put  his  head,  with 
its  long  delicate  face  framed  in  gray  whiskers,  over 
the  half-door  of  a  room  at  the  end  of  the  house. 


1C 


THIS,   MY   SON"  5 

"Good  day,"  he  called  to  the  farmer's  wife. 
The  latter,  having  just  finished  laying  the  table, 
was  on  the  point  of  putting  the  bread  into  the 
soup.  She  held  a  large  round  loaf  resting  against 
her  hip,  from  which  with  a  regular  movement  of 
the  hand  she  was  cutting  slices,  and  laying  them 
one  above  the  other  in  the  soup-pot.  She  was  of 
medium  height,  and  of  thin  and  nervous  physique; 
her  face  with  its  regular  features  was  aged  before 
its  time,  and  the  mother's  soul,  that  one  instinc- 
tively felt  was  forever  anxiously  on  the  alert, 
looked  out  through  the  jet-black  eyes. 

The  dancing  flame  on  the  hearth,  driven  hither 
and  thither  by  the  wind  which  blew  a  little  from 
all  quarters,  lit  up  her  figure  and  shone  beyond 
her  on  the  table,  on  the  polished  cherry-wood 
benches,  on  the  ladder  for  the  bread  hanging  from 
the  rafters,  and  on  the  two  four-post  beds,  fur- 
nished, according  to  ancient  fashion,  with  curtains 
of  gray  fustian  and  yellow  coverlets,  which 
flanked  each  side  of  the  door  leading  into  the 
adjoining  room. 

On  seeing  the  lord  of  the  manor,  Perrine  Noel- 
let  put  the  bread  down  on  the  table,  and  quickly 
caught  up  the  corner  of  her  apron,  which  was,  no 
doubt,  not  entirely  spotless. 

"Good  day,  Monsieur  Hubert,"  she  said;  "you 
have  come  back  then." 

"Rather  late  in  the  day,  is  it  not?  We  have 
just  returned  from  a  three  months'  tour  in  Swit- 
zerland and  Italy  which  I  would  willingly  have 
been  spared,  for  you  know  that  I  love  this  coun- 
try, my  home  of  Landehue,  my  woods  and  my 


6  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

parish  of  Fief-Sauvin,  above  all  other  places.  But 
what  would  you  have?  My  daughters  dragged  me 
off;  you  can't  have  your  own  way  with  them 
when  they  are  grown  up  as  you  did  when  they 
were  little." 

"And  pray  why  not?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  The  old  rule,  the  paternal 
authority  of  past  days,  is  still  kept  up  in  your 
home;  but  I,  you  see,  I  am  one  of  the  moderns, 
and  I  spoil  my  girls  a  bit.  Will  you  believe  it 
now  that  Madeleine  is  no  longer  satisfied  with  her 
pony  and  little  carriage,  but  wants  me  to  give 
her  a  hunter.  Ah,  these  children!" 

"And  a  very  beautiful  daughter  you  have  in 
her,  Monsieur  Hubert." 

"You  think  so?"  said  Monsieur  Hubert,  smil- 
ing and  flattered.  "And  how  is  your  hus- 
band?" 

Perrine  Noellet's  figure  seemed  to  expand  as 
she  looked  toward  the  door  and  exclaimed, 
"Here  he  is." 

The  farmer,  seeing  Monsieur  Laubriet,  had 
paused  on  the  threshold.  His  tall  figure  nearly 
filled  up  the  doorway.  The  head  was  large,  the 
face  square  and  clean  shaven,  the  lips  thin,  the 
eyes  deeply  sunk  under  bushy  eyebrows,  the  ex- 
pression of  the  whole  countenance  serious,  and 
just  a  little  hard. 

His  hair,  cut  short  on  the  forehead,  hung  low 
behind  over  the  collar  of  his  coat.  Forty-five 
years  of  toil  under  the  sun  had  neither  impover- 
ished nor  bent  him,  and  it  was  enough  to  see  his 
straightforward  gaze  as  he  advanced  toward  his 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  7 

guest  and  grasped  his  hand  with  respectful  famil- 
iarity to  know  at  once  that  here  was  a  man  of  up- 
right character  and  of  ancient  race,  and  a  master 
in  his  own  house. 

The  children  followed  their  father  into  the 
room:  first  a  little  girl,  Antoinette,  with  a  black 
cap  on  her  head,  from  under  which  one  golden 
lock  of  hair  had  escaped — she  went  up  to  Mon- 
sieur Laubriet,  and  offered  her  cheek  to  him  in  an 
innocent  way;  then  came  Pierre,  the  rider  of  la 
Huasse;  Jacques,  his  younger  brother,  pale  and 
slender,  with  large  eyes  as  soft  as  periwinkles; 
and,  finally,  Marie,  the  eldest  of  the  family,  a 
brunette,  already  somewhat  grave  in  manner, 
who  turned  down  her  rolled-up  sleeves  as  she 
went  and  stood  by  her  mother. 

Monsieur  Laubriet  looked  round  on  them  all, 
pausing  when  he  came  to  Marie. 

"Seventeen,  is  she  not,  Farmer?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Hubert." 

"That  makes  you  old,  friend." 

"It  makes  us  all  old,"  replied  the  farmer,  with 
a  half  smile  on  his  sun-burnt  lips. 

"And  my  godson!"  continued  the  lord  of  the 
manor,  pointing  toward  Pierre,  "how  he  has 
grown!  What  age  is  he  now?" 

"Fifteen." 

"And  is  what  I  hear  true,  my  boy,  you  are 
learning  Latin  with  the  Abbe"  ?  " 

Pierre  kept  his  head  bent,  and  continued  gazing 
at  his  shoes  with  an  air  of  discontent. 

"Answer,  my  son,"  said  the  farmer,  as  a  look 
of  pride,  like  a  flame,  brought  a  light  into  his  face. 


8  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

"Since  Monsieur  Hubert  speaks  to  you,  answer 
him." 

The  boy,  without  lifting  his  head,  half  raised 
his  eyes,  for  just  sufficient  time  to  show  that  they 
were  lighter  and  harder  than  those  of  his  father; 
then  in  a  tone  which  betrayed  a  consciousness  of 
wounded  vanity: 

"I  am  doing  Greek  as  well,"  he  said. 

"To  think  of  that!  Greek  as  well!  We  shall  be 
seeing  you  at  the  College  of  Beaupre'au  next  year, 
I  suppose." 

"That  is  what  he  thinks  of  doing,"  replied  the 
father. 

"I  am  delighted,"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Laubriet. 
"Read,  work,  teach  yourself  all  you  can,  Pierre; 
with  your  intelligence  you  will  soon  catch  the 
others.  And  now  I  wish  you  all  good  appetite! 
I  could  not  let  my  first  day  at  La  Landehue  pass 
without  saying  good  day  to  La  Geniviere.  But 
I  have  said  it  now,  so  I  will  be  off."  And  as  he 
walked  away,  followed  by  a  chorus  of  young 
voices,  calling  out,  "Good  evening,  Monsieur  Hu- 
bert— -Good-by,  Monsieur  Hubert — A  vous  revoir, 
Monsieur  Hubert,"  he  turned  to  the  farmer  who 
was  accompanying  him,  with  the  words : 

"I  congratulate  you,  my  friend;  one  son  a 
priest,  another  a  field-labourer — it  is  the  picture 
of  our  Vended.  He  is  a  good  boy,  your  Pierre?" 

"I  can't  say  no:  but  a  little  too  proud  in  his 
ways.  However,  that  will  pass  away,  I  hope, 
since  God  has  chosen  him  for  His  service.  Jacques 
will  be  easier  to  manage,  Monsieur  Hubert." 

"Indeed!" 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  9 

"More  tender  and  loving  to  his  mother,  and  an 
indefatigable  worker  into  the  bargain,  as  good  as 
a  young  horse ;  he  will  never  give  in  as  long  as  his 
strength  lasts  out." 

"A  genuine  farmer,  in  short." 

"Just  so." 

"You  are  a  lucky  man,  Julien,  so  don't 
grumble." 

The  farmer  had  walked  to  the  end  of  the  road 
that  ran  beside  the  barn,  and  he  now  shook  Mon- 
sieur Laubriet  by  the  hand,  as  he  answered  in  his 
quiet,  rather  drawling  voice : 

"I  am  not  grumbling,  don't  think  it." 

Then  he  returned  to  the  house,  where  nothing 
was  to  be  heard  but  the  talking  and  laughing  of 
the  children,  and  the  clack  of  wooden  shoes  on  the 
well-trodden  earth  floor.  A  farm  servant  followed 
him  in.  The  men  went  and  took  down  their 
spoons,  which  were  hung  on  the  wall  by  a  leathern 
strap,  and  then  seated  themselves  round  the  smok- 
ing soup.  The  women  ate  theirs  standing  about 
here  and  there,  as  was  customary;  they  spoke 
little  themselves,  listening  to  the  men  as  they  dis- 
cussed the  work  of  the  past  day  and  of  the  mor- 
row in  short  fragmentary  sentences  between  the 
silences  imposed  by  their  voracious  hunger. 

There  was  an  air  of  prosperity  about  the  farm 
and  its  inmates.  The  parents  were  healthy,  the 
children  well-grown  and  lively.  The  servant, 
robust  and  composed,  was  in  himself  a  proof  of 
his  master's  honourable  position.  There  was 
neither  crack  nor  chip  in  the  earthenware  dish 
which  stood  loaded  with  bacon  and  cabbages,  nor 


10  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

in  the  blue-flowered  salad  bowl  piled  high  with 
fresh  lettuces.  Every  bit  of  furniture  was  bright 
with  polish. 

Outside  in  the  cow-sheds,  whence  could  be  heard 
from  time  to  time  the  rattle  of  chains  over  the 
wooden  mangers,  stood  some  of  the  best-fed  beasts 
in  the  country;  milch  cows,  whose  butter  was  at  a 
premium  in  the  Beaupreau  market;  six  oxen  that, 
when  ploughing  together,  were  a  superb  sight; 
the  old  mare,  La  Huasse,  and  her  foal,  as  well 
as  pigs,  several  broods  of  chickens  and  ducks, 
without  naming  the  goat — a  solemn  animal  said  to 
be  indispensable  for  the  health  of  the  flocks.  And 
in  order  to  keep  this  household  of  human  beings 
and  animals  alive,  seventy  acres  or  so  of  land, 
cultivated,  if  according  to  a  somewhat  old- 
fashioned  routine,  still  with  the  greatest  care,  for 
Julien  Noellet  was  his  own  master  at  La  Geni- 
viere.  It  was  his  estate,  his  landed  property,  the 
fruit  of  the  labour  of  many  generations  of  ances- 
tors. 

How  all  those,  since  passed  away,  those  obscure 
dwellers  upon  the  earth,  now  taking  their  last 
sleep  in  the  adjoining  churchyards,  hoped  and 
worked  and  struggled  and  saved  to  make  and 
keep  the  land  their  own!  One  thought  alone 
pursued  them  as  they  went  from  farm  to  farm  in 
their  slow  pilgrimage  across  the  Mauges,  serving 
first  one  master  and  then  another.  At  night, 
when,  bent  with  the  fatigue  of  the  day,  they  re- 
turned to  their  chimney  corner,  and  sat  in  the 
dim  light  to  save  the  candle,  they  would  see  a 
vision  of  a  white  house,  a  well-lighted  house, 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  11 

where  some  great-grandson — their  own  death, 
they  knew,  was  near — would  reign  as  independent 
lord.  They  found  consolation  in  their  own  misery 
hi  this  dream  of  joy  for  another  who  should  in  his 
person  realize  the  ambition  of  a  whole  race.  And 
then  they  died,  and  their  small  savings  increased 
in  the  hands  of  the  eldest  son,  more  or  less  slowly 
according  as  the  harvests  were  good  or  bad,  but 
whatever  the  fortune  of  the  years,  the  money  put 
by  lay  untouched  for  purchase  or  pledge.  Then 
suddenly  a  good  marriage  might  double  the  prop- 
erty, and  in  this  way  it  had  come  about  that  with 
the  money  hidden  away  in  a  stone  jar,  added  to 
the  price  of  a  little  garden  he  owned  in  the  parish 
of  Villeneuve,  and  his  wife's  dowry,  Julien  Noel- 
let's  father  had  been  enabled  to  purchase  La  Geni- 
viere,  which  had  been  put  up  for  sale  by  its  an- 
cient proprietors  of  La  Landehue  during  an  inter- 
val of  pecuniary  embarrassment. 

And  now  here  was  the  heir  of  all  this  obstinate 
labour  looked  up  to  with  respect  on  account  of 
his  fortune,  which  was  the  largest  possessed  by 
any  of  the  farmers  of  that  district,  and  even  more 
on  account  of  his  character.  He  had  inherited  the 
spirit  of  order,  which  had  been  the  main  strength 
of  his  race,  together  with  the  desire  to  add  to  his 
property;  with  these  traits  was  combined  the  lib- 
erality that  is  always  associated  with  righteously 
acquired  ease  of  circumstance;  and  to  crown  all 
there  was  his  fine  face,  which  expanded  into  a 
smile  of  serene  confidence  as  he  looked  round  on 
those  belonging  to  him.  He  loved  the  land  with 
a  profound  and  devoted  love;  he  was  an  alms- 


12  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

giver  and  a  believer.  Yes,  the  dream  of  the  older 
race  had  been  realized,  and  the  one  they  had  seen 
in  their  visions  was  now  occupying  the  white 
house  of  La  Geniviere,  on  the  slope  of  the  Fief- 
Sauvin,  facing  the  same  horizon  that  they  had 
seen,  under  the  same  wide-spreading  sky. 


CHAPTER    II. 


IT  was  quite  true.  Pierre  was  beginning  to  study 
Latin  with  Abbe"  Heurtebise,  the  parish  priest 
of  Villeneuve,  which  is  one  of  the  smallest  of  the 
parishes  into  which  the  commune  of  Fief-Sauvin 
is  divided. 

While  still  a  child  at  the  elementary  school  he 
had  been  distinguished  among  the  other  pupils  by 
his  ardent  desire  to  learn  and  to  get  ahead  of  his 
companions.  His  brother  Jacques,  who  was  hardly 
a  year  younger  than  himself,  read  with  difficulty, 
and  had  no  liking  for  it,  nor  any  greater  love  for 
writing,  which  he  only  performed  as  a  task  and 
when  under  the  master's  eye.  As  to  his  thoughts, 
they  were  occupied  merely  with  such  simple  mat- 
ters as  were  generally  found  interesting  by  the 
lads  of  the  town:  his  sisters,  the  traps  he  had  set, 
a  nest  he  had  discovered  which  was  to  lead  to  a 
little  bird-nesting  when  school  was  over,  with 
racing  bareheaded  over  the  fields,  shouting  and 
stamping  in  the  sun  after  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, and,  above  all,  with  Pierre,  whom  he  loved 
to  distraction. 

Pierre  was  for  him  the  one  and  only  master,  a 
kind  of  presiding  genius,  a  being  who  could  order 
all  things  according  to  his  pleasure.  No  one  re- 
joiced at  Pierre's  success  more  heartily  than 
Jacques.  Saturday,  the  pay-day  of  school-boys  as 

13 


14  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

well  as  of  men,  he  would  hurry  and  get  home  first, 
and,  arriving  at  the  farm  streaming  with  sweat, 
cry  out,  "Pierre  has  won  the  cross!  Maman, 
Pierre  has  won  the  cross!"  and  embrace  his 
mother  in  the  joy  of  his  triumph,  while  she 
would  ask,  "And  you,  Jacques,  my  boy?"  Then 
he  would  give  a  little  pout  and  indicate  that 
he  himself  had  nothing,  but  he  was  soon  his 
own  contented  self  again.  Everybody  is  not 
born  for  the  cross,  and  it  is  not  everybody  who 
cares  for  it. 

A  moment  later  the  elder  brother  would  come 
in,  looking  a  little  haughty,  as  his  father  had  said, 
with  his  books  under  his  arm  and  his  hand  on  his 
hip.  He  allowed  himself  to  be  kissed  and  com- 
plimented, and  then  went  and  sat  himself  down 
without  a  moment's  delay  at  the  table  that  had 
been  bought  expressly  for  him,  and  that  was  re- 
served for  his  books  and  papers — an  unheard-of 
luxury  at  La  Geniviere — while  Jacques  called  in 
the  cattle  that  were  loath  to  leave  the  watering- 
place,  or  brought  in  the  sheep.  "What  a  pity 
some  one  does  not  give  that  boy  a  lift!"  the 
teacher  would  often  remark;  "he  would  make  his 
way  well." 

To  look  at  the  two  brothers  was  sufficient  to 
make  one  aware  of  the  difference  of  character  be- 
tween them.  The  younger,  who  had  shot  up  too 
quickly,  and  stooped,  looking  like  the  untrained 
sapling  of  a  poplar,  had  the  face  of  a  girl;  his 
pink  skin  was  covered  with  freckles,  and  in  his 
lively  blue  eyes  could  be  read  nothing  beyond  the 
joy  of  life.  Wild  and  nimble,  he  would  run  away 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  15 

at  the  sight  of  a  pedlar,  or  a  sheep-dealer  who 
happened  to  come  into  the  courtyard.  Except 
on  these  rare  occasions,  he  never  voluntarily  for- 
sook the  house;  he  helped  his  father,  he  helped 
his  mother,  he  helped  his  sisters,  he  helped  the 
farm  labourers.  His  heart  was  bound  up  with 
La  Geniviere,  and  he  found  happiness  in  his 
home  life. 

Pierre  was  a  different  young  man  altogether. 
In  person  he  was  like  his  father — dark,  heavily 
built,  with  regularly  cut  features.  The  square 
jaw  and  the  thin  mouth  indicated  an  energetic 
will,  but  the  strength  of  the  nature  was  even  more 
clearly  shown  in  the  eyes.  It  was  difficult  to  say 
whether  they  were  blue  or  green;  deeply  set  under 
the  shadowing  brow,  they  looked  out  with  that 
direct,  ardent,  unflinching  glance  which  belongs 
to  those  overmastering  characters  that  pass  rap- 
idly from  one  extreme  to  another. 

They  flamed  up  in  a  moment  at  the  least  re- 
proof or  the  slightest  contradiction.  When  at 
rest  they  were  somewhat  haughty  in  their  expres- 
sion; they  rarely  grew  tender.  But  the  mother 
loved  her  Pierre's  dark  eyes,  and  when  she  met 
them  fixed  on  her,  the  thought  would  flash 
through  her,  too,  that  her  Noellet  had  not  his 
equal  throughout  the  Mauges. 

Possibly  she  had  said  it  in  so  many  words,  and 
neither  these  words  nor  the  unspoken  flattery  of 
the  smiles  that  were  lavished  upon  him  escaped 
the  boy's  notice.  When  thirteen  years  of  age  he 
had  been  taken  away  from  school,  and  imme- 
diately put  in  the  place  of  the  second  farm  servant, 


16  'THIS,   MY  SON" 

who  was  dismissed,  the  father  rejoicing  at  having 
a  son  to  help  him.  But  the  scholar  survived  his 
schooling — which  was  not  generally  the  case  in 
the  country — and  Pierre  continued  his  reading, 
and  did  not  lose  his  desire  for  knowledge.  His 
heart  was  not  in  his  daily  labour,  nor  did  he  share 
in  the  rough  joy  of  the  harvest.  He  did  his  work 
well,  but  found  no  pleasure  in  it,  and  he  had  a 
habit  of  going  off  by  himself  during  the  intervals 
of  rest  for  the  horses  instead  of  staying  to  laugh 
with  the  others;  and  the  indifference  with  which 
he  looked  at  the  cattle  in  the  sheds  was  a  sorrow 
to  his  father,  whose  one  pride  was  in  his  farm. 
What  Pierre  enjoyed  was  to  sit  reading  in  the 
evening  or  on  Sunday  either  the  books  he  bor- 
rowed from  the  lending  library  which  had  been 
established  at  Fief-Sauvin  by  the  Laubriets,  or 
bits  of  newspapers  that  had  wrapped  up  caps  or 
shoes,  purchases  by  his  sisters  at  Beaupreau; 
even  the  placards  on  the  walls  were  a  pleasure 
to  him. 

At  the  fairs,  whither  he  now  accompanied  his 
father,  he  listened  to  the  conversations  of  the 
grain  and  cattle  dealers,  who  are  extensive  trav- 
ellers and  have  something  to  say  about  everything. 
Many  things  to  which  his  father  turned  an  indif- 
ferent ear,  although  he  heard  them  equally,  at- 
tracted his  attention,  and  he  would  ponder  over 
these  as  he  worked  in  the  fields.  And  so  it  was 
that  an  atmosphere  of  ideas  and  imagination  grew 
up  around  him  wherein  he  lived  apart.  Every 
day  the  distance  widened  between  his  thoughts, 
his  opinions,  his  tastes,  and  those  of  his  parents. 


'THIS,   MY  SON"  17 

They  had  but  a  vague  consciousness  of  this,  but 
he  was  more  acutely  aware  of  it.  A  restless  ambi- 
tion seized  him,  a  longing  to  rise,  and  everything 
continually  added  fuel  to  his  desires;  from  men 
and  creatures,  from  all  sides,  from  over  the  hills, 
the  church  towers  and  the  rivers,  came  that  mys- 
terious influence,  which  reaches  to  the  humble 
roofs,  like  those  of  La  Geniviere  standing  on  its 
wooded  slope,  that  rise  far  away  from  the  great 
centres.  But  Pierre  Noellet  took  no  one  into  his 
confidence,  and  none  could  tell  what  was  passing 
in  his  mind. 

Suddenly,  on  the  morrow  of  his  fourteenth 
birthday,  he  expressed  his  intention  of  becoming 
a  priest.  The  choice  of  this  vocation  was  not  sur- 
prising in  this  sacerdotal  territory  of  La  Vende*e, 
where  now,  as  before  the  Revolution,  God  levies 
each  year  a  tithe  of  young  servitors.  His  mother 
was  delighted.  At  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she 
had  often  envied  the  women  of  the  neighbourhood 
who  had  a  son  in  the  church,  either  a  parish  priest 
or  a  curate,  and  who  were  to  be  seen  at  rare  inter- 
vals walking  with  him,  overcome  with  emotion 
and  a  certain  embarrassment  between  their  love 
for  the  son  and  their  respect  for  the  priest.  She 
had,  therefore,  no  hesitation  in  giving  her  consent, 
and  would  have  liked  the  father  to  do  the  same, 
but,  for  the  moment,  he  refused  his  assent  to  the 
project.  It  was,  doubtless,  only  a  boy's  fancy, 
and  would  not  last,  and  he  was  not  going  to  de- 
prive himself  for  that  of  so  serviceable  a  son,  or 
renounce  his  hope  of  seeing  Pierre  one  day  take 
the  direction  of  the  farm  into  his  own  hands;  still 


18  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

less  could  he  contemplate  the  thought  of  sending 
him  away,  and  of  undertaking  for  several  years  to 
come  the  heavy  expense  of  lodgings,  books,  and 
clothes.  No,  he  must  wait  at  least  another  twelve 
months  before  he  could  give  consideration  even  to 
such  a  proposition.  And  for  a  whole  year  the  sub- 
ject was  never  mentioned  again  between  Julien 
and  his  son.  Pierre  continued  to  plough  and  har- 
row, and  to  cut  the  clover,  and  the  grass  for  hay, 
like  any  future  farmer,  without  a  single  allusion 
to  the  matter  which  had  divided  them. 

But  as  September  drew  near,  the  year  of  wait- 
ing having  expired,  Pierre  renewed  his  request. 
A  further  delay  could  not  reasonably  be  asked  for 
on  this  occasion.  It  must  be  either  consent  or 
refusal.  The  farmer,  accordingly,  gave  in  to  ne- 
cessity, and  went  to  talk  over  the  matter  with  the 
priest  of  Villeneuve.  Abbe"  Heurtebise  thereupon 
sent  for  the  boy,  questioned  him,  and  replied  to 
his  father:  " There  are  things  to  be  said  both  for 
and  against  it,  but  on  the  whole,  more  for  than 
against,  and  as  one  can  never  be  sure  how  things 
may  turn  out,  let  the  boy  come  to  me  three  times 
a  week,  and  I  will  take  the  responsibility:  next 
year  he  ought  to  be  ready  to  enter  the  college  of 
Beaupre*au,  and  I  promise  you  he  will  not  enter  a 
low  class." 

Since  which  time,  Pierre  Noellet,  his  bag  under 
his  arm,  had  regularly  attended  the  Presbytery 
at  Villeneuve.  This  old  bag,  a  large  leathern 
pouch,  originally  of  a  yellow  colour,  which  had 
done  duty  at  school,  and  served  in  turn  as  a  club, 
as  a  cushion,  and  as  a  receptacle  for  stolen  birds' 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  19 

eggs,  dirty,  and  out  of  shape  as  it  was,  Pierre  car- 
ried with  pride,  now  that  he  could  show  that  it 
held  Latin  books,  dictionaries,  large  volumes  of 
Greek  and  French  history,  and  exercise  books, 
half  bound  in  boards,  such  as  a  youth  of  his  age 
had  never  seen  before,  much  less  had  the  honour 
of  possessing.  On  his  way  he  frequently  met  one 
or  other  of  his  old  school-fellows,  with  whom  he 
had  studied  reading  and  writing,  and  their  looks  of 
astonishment  were  a  pleasant  flattery  to  him. 
He  made  them  hold  out  the  dictionaries  at  arm's 
length  and  feel  the  weight  of  them.  It  was  a 
prouder  moment  still  when  the  scholar  opened  at 
random  before  these  bovine  apprentices  the  "De 
Viris  Illustribus"  of  the  worthy  Lhomond,  and 
made  them  spell  a  Latin  phrase. 

"Do  you  understand?"  he  would  ask. 

"Not  I,"  would  be  the  answer.  And  Pierre 
would  shrug  his  shoulders  and  remark  that,  nev- 
ertheless, it  was  quite  easy;  it  merely  meant  that 
Epaminondas  died  at  Mantinea. 

Epaminondas,  Mantinea,  words  such  as  these 
were  quite  sufficient  to  win  for  any  one  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  scholar  at  Fief-Sauvin,  and  it  was  not 
long  after  he  had  started  his  mysterious  classical 
studies  before  Pierre  Noellet  found  himself  the 
object  of  a  certain  consideration,  not  only  among 
those  of  his  own  age,  but  also  among  the  elders. 

To  reach  the  Presbytery  he  had  to  pass  through 
the  whole  length  of  Fief-Sauvin,  and  to  walk  the 
best  part  of  a  mile  beyond;  on  the  way  he  passed 
the  house  of  more  than  one  of  his  friends,  who 
would  greet  him  with  a  few  kindly  or  jesting 


20  "THIS,  MY  SON" 

words,  or  a  nod,  or  a  bow,  all  unmistakable  signs 
of  his  growing  importance.  Fauvepre,  the  smith 
and  wheelwright,  a  big  jovial  man,  whose  forge 
stood  to  the  right  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  would  leave 
off  his  shoeing,  and  call  out  to  him,  the  horse's 
hoof  still  held  against  his  leathern  apron:  "Good 
day,  Rosa  la  rose!"  The  elder  Huet,  wholesale 
and  retail  grocer,  who  always  stood  three  paces 
from  his  door,  in  order  to  be  able  to  say  "  After 
you,"  to  his  customer,  and  so  had  won  for  himself 
a  reputation  of  urbanity,  nodded  his  head  back- 
ward and  forward  as  he  saw  him  pass.  Mother 
Mitard,  the  dropsical  lady  of  property,  would 
send  him  a  smile  through  one  of  the  windows  of 
her  new  house ;  the  innkeeper,  who  was  a  Liberal, 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  would  exclaim:  "A 
shame  to  turn  a  fellow  like  you  into  a  priest! 
Get  away,  you  idle  dog!" 

At  the  further  end  of  Fief-Sauvin,  to  the  left, 
stood  also  the  dwelling  of  Nicholas  Rainette,  the 
weaver,  who  was  more  often  to  be  found  at  the 
inn  than  at  his  work.  His  want  of  application  to 
his  trade,  however,  was  compensated  for  by  his 
daughter  Melie,  who  did  the  work  of  two  pairs  of 
hands;  she  was  about  a  year  older  than  Pierre  and 
his  sister's  particular  friend.  She  might  be  seen 
through  the  low  windows  of  the  cellar  at  all 
hours  of  the  day,  leaning  over  the  heavy  wooden 
machine,  as  she  sent  the  shuttle  flying,  as  if  it 
were  a  gray  mouse,  athwart  the  tightly-stretched 
threads.  Me"lie  had  nothing  to  say  as  Pierre  went 
by;  she  only  raised  her  eyes,  while  the  face  for  a 
moment  grew  less  serious,  and  as  long  as  he  could 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  21 

be  seen  through  the  narrow  opening,  she  kept  her 
gaze  upon  him. 

Pierre,  thinking  of  nothing  in  particular,  or 
repeating  his  lessons  to  himself,  continued  his 
way  along  the  road  that  wound  across  the  pla- 
teau, which  brought  him  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
to  Villeneuve — that  is  to  say,  to  a  group  of  houses 
and  gardens  which  clustered  in  a  disorderly  man- 
ner around  the  church.  Close  to  the  church  stood 
the  Presbytery,  equally  new  and  redolent  of  plas- 
ter. Between  the  two  was  a  disused  courtyard 
overrun  with  aromatic  herbs,  lavender,  hyssop, 
and  sage. 

Pierre  entered  the  house. 

"Is  Monsieur  le  Cure*  not  in,  Gillette?" 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  he  is  out  in  the 
field;  why  do  you  want  to  have  the  same  thing 
told  you  every  day?" 

The  field  consisted  merely  of  a  narrow  strip  of 
ground  behind  the  Presbytery,  where  the  grass, 
eaten  close  by  the  cow,  and  trampled  over  by  the 
priest's  wooden  shoes  or  those  of  his  parishioners, 
had  little  chance  of  growing.  Nevertheless  the 
abbe  never  spoke  of  it  without  reverence,  and 
seemed  to  find  an  incredible  pleasure  in  its  pos- 
session. He  was  a  tall,  long-legged,  upright  old 
man,  large  of  bone,  with  closely-cut  curly  white 
hair,  a  neck  bronzed  by  the  sun,  a  long  thick  nose, 
and  two  small  extremely  black  eyes  almost  lost 
beneath  the  gray  eyebrows.  He  greeted  his  pupil 
with  solemnity,  responded  to  his  good  day  with 
an  inclination  of  the  head,  and  then  took  Pierre's 
work  from  his  trembling  hands.  Presently  he 


22  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

began  to  move  about,  to  puff  and  blow,  and  then 
suddenly  stopped  and  gazed  at  the  boy  in  a  terri- 
fying manner. 

"You  did  all  that  by  yourself?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Cure"." 

"No  one  gave  you  any  help?" 

"Why,  Monsieur  le  Cure",  who  is  there,  do  you 
think,  to  give  me  help?" 

"I  can  hardly  believe  it — my  word!  Every- 
thing understood,  and  not  a  fault.  Such  an  exer- 
cise as  in  my  time  was  given  to  the  Fifths!" 

And  then  for  the  next  hour  or  two  the  field  re- 
sounded with  Latin  words,  with  apostrophes,  with 
geographical  and  historical  names  which  were 
well  calculated  to  disconcert  the  old  people  seated 
not  far  off  on  their  several  doorsteps,  and  who 
amid  the  silent  atmosphere  of  their  homes  could 
catch  every  sound. 

The  sitting  lasted  as  long  as  was  required  for 
the  correction  of  exercises  and  repeating  of  les- 
sons. Then  the  pupil,  his  satchel  over  his  shoul- 
der, wended  his  way  home  again,  generally  choos- 
ing the  short  cut,  athirst  for  liberty  and  violent 
exercise.  He  longed  for  fatigue  of  body  as  a  re- 
laxation for  his  tired  mind,  and  reaching  home  at 
the  hour  when  master  and  men,  with  all  the  long 
day's  labour  behind  them,  were  beginning  to  feel 
less  stalwart,  he  would  set  to  work  and  outdo 
them  all,  whether  it  was  a  question  of  mowing  a 
corner  of  clover  for  the  cattle,  holding  the  plough, 
climbing  barefoot  into  the  chestnut  tree  to  shake 
down  the  fruit,  or  of  cutting  the  stalk  of  a  potato 
with  a  single  stroke.  Now  that  it  was  no  longer 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  23 

his  actual  calling,  and  that  no  one  obliged  him  to 
do  it,  he  liked  this  rougher  kind  of  farm  labour. 
He  performed  it  with  the  ease  of  a  strong,  full- 
grown  man,  and  the  father,  watching  him,  could 
not  help  thinking  what  a  splendid  farmer  he 
would  have  made.  Then  he  sighed,  only  to  re- 
proach himself  afterward  for  this  momentary 
weakness. 

It  was  only  by  fits  and  starts,  however,  that 
Pierre  occupied  himself  with  the  more  serious 
duties  connected  with  the  farm.  In  order  to  give 
him  time  to  study,  he  was  sent  with  his  books  and 
papers  to  watch  the  cows  in  place  of  his  sisters. 
And  it  was  while  thus  employed,  surrounded  by 
Nature,  amid  the  speaking  solitude  of  the  country, 
that  his  mind  for  the  first  time  conceived  the  idea 
of  letters.  A  fine  school  for  him,  and  how  well  he 
profited  by  it !  He  was  carried  away  by  an  intense 
fever  of  life,  which  he  mistook  for  thought.  There 
were  wonderful  vistas  along  all  the  new  paths 
which  now  opened  to  him — tumultuous  proces- 
sions of  dreams,  of  floating  figures,  of  vague  aspi- 
rations. At  moments  his  heart  also  became  sur- 
charged, and  he  was  astonished  at  this  new  joy 
which  had  so  suddenly  come  to  him.  The  most 
ordinary  things,  seen  or  heard  a  hundred  times 
before,  the  pale  billows  of  waving  corn,  the  open- 
ing out  of  the  little  valleys,  a  group  of  trees,  the 
cattle-call,  which  he  had  sung  out  himself,  echo- 
ing from  hill  to  hill — everything  seemed  to  intoxi- 
cate him.  A  longing  possessed  him  to  thank  the 
trees,  the  grass,  and  the  sky  for  being  beautiful, 
smiling,  and  young  like  himself.  Why,  he  asked 


24  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

himself,  was  there  all  this  rejoicing  in  the  world, 
so  that  everything  around  him  was  radiant;  and 
at  certain  softer  hours  of  the  day,  if  he  lifted  his 
eyes  from  his  books,  he  would  immediately  close 
them,  his  very  heart  seeming  to  melt  within  him. 

He  frequently  did  not  return  home  till  supper 
time.  The  meal  over,  he  would  remain  in  the 
general  room,  which  was  known  as  the  Maison, 
and  where  he  slept  with  Jacques,  while  his  mother 
and  sisters  would  retire  into  the  adjoining  apart- 
ment, the  tidiest  and  best  furnished  in  the  farm, 
and  called  in  La  Vendee  the  Chambre.  His  les- 
sons were  not  always  finished  by  this  time,  for 
Abbe*  Heurtebise  gave  him  plenty  to  do.  Some- 
times the  young  scholar  sat  up  another  hour,  or 
even  two.  The  fire  would  die  out  on  the  hearth, 
large  red  mushrooms  appear  on  the  wick  of  the 
tallow  candle,  a  smell  of  yeast  steal  from  the  bin, 
while  Jacques  snored  as  he  lay  with  one  shoulder 
uncovered  and  casting  a  shadow  on  the  wall,  and 
still  the  little  pen  with  its  death's  head  went 
scratching  over  the  paper,  until  the  mother,  hi 
bed  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  catching  sight 
of  the  light  under  the  door,  would  call  in  a  low 
voice,  as  she  tapped  with  her  finger  against  the 
partition: 

"Put  out  the  candle,  my  Noellet;  it  is  getting 
late." 

He  obeyed.  But  his  nerves  were  often  too  ex- 
cited for  him  to  sleep,  and  he  would  open  the  door 
on  to  the  court  and  draw  in  the  fresh  air,  or  amuse 
himself  with  looking  up  through  the  opening  of 
the  wide  chimney  and  counting  the  stars  which 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  25 

he  could  see  passing  overhead.  There  were  some 
of  these  for  which  he  had  a  particular  affection, 
among  them  the  three  in  the  belt  of  Orion;  and 
as  he  was  not  without  a  desire  for  glory,  he  would 
dream  sometimes  that  he  wore  one  of  these  on  his 
forehead  and  the  other  two  at  his  ears,  and  that 
thus  adorned  he  paraded  magnificently  among 
the  constellations. 


CHAPTER  III. 


MELIE  also  had  a  star  of  her  own  which  she  loved. 
At  a  certain  hour  of  the  morning,  which  varied 
with  the  seasons,  a  ray  of  light  shot  over  the  roof 
of  the  opposite  house,  and  fell  through  the  window 
of  her  low  room.  It  shone  all  day,  gliding  over 
the  great  wooden  roller,  round  which  the  cloth 
was  wound,  or  on  to  the  frame,  which  had  grown 
polished  with  constant  friction  as  it  was  regularly 
driven  backward  and  forward  by  the  weaver's 
hands.  Melie  knew  it  well  and  greeted  it  with 
a  smile.  She  missed  it  sorely  on  dark  days,  and 
when  it  lost  itself  in  the  evening  in  the  corner  of 
the  cellar  among  the  old  barrels  heaped  with 
skeins  of  thread  and  odd  pieces,  she  felt  a  tighten- 
ing of  the  heart. 

That  little  ray  of  light,  you  see,  meant  joy.  And 
there  was  so  little  of  this  in  the  weaver's  home ! 

No  house  in  Fief-Sauvin  was  older  or  more  di- 
lapidated. 

The  sunk  and  bulging  old  walls  were  seamed 
with  cracks,  and  only  held  together  in  places  by  the 
kindly  mosses.  The  roof  was  crooked  with  age, 
and  had  given  way  between  each  of  the  rafters. 
The  house  itself  consisted  only  of  a  passage,  a 
room  on  the  right  for  the  father,  where  was  the 
trap-door  leading  down  into  the  cellar,  and  an- 
other on  the  left  for  Melie.  This,  with  the  little 

26 


'THIS,   MY  SON"  27 

garden  at  the  back,  was  all  the  property  they 
possessed,  and  it  would  have  been  necessary  to 
deduct  the  owner's  debts  before  making  quite 
sure,  even  then,  of  what  they  were  worth.  He 
owed  money  at  all  the  public-houses  of  his  own 
and  the  neighbouring  villages.  Pere  Rainette 
drank.  During  the  time  his  wife  was  alive  it  was 
asserted  that  he  was  only  drunk  once  in  every 
two  days.  But  this  must  have  been  a  mistake. 
Melie  could  remember  nothing  of  the  kind;  since 
her  infancy  she  had  been  familiar  with  all  the  lu- 
gubrious drama  of  drink  and  poverty,  and  all  that 
she  could  recall  of  her  mother  was  of  a  wretched, 
meek,  beaten  woman,  who  rejoiced  at  death  as  at 
a  deliverance  from  misery. 

In  order  to  keep  her  away  as  much  as  possible 
from  her  unhappy  home,  the  Sisters  of  the  school 
had  allowed  her  to  stay  on  after  she  had  com- 
pleted the  regulation  number  of  years,  and  had 
taught  her  everything  which  they  knew  them- 
selves :  a  great  deal  of  gentleness  and  pity,  a  little 
literature,  sufficient  for  the  preliminary  certifi- 
cate, and  many  pretty  secrets  of  needlework,  of 
lace-making,  crochet,  and  embroidery,  in  which 
arts  they  excelled.  Her  intercourse  with  them 
had  not  only  made  Me"lie  one  of  the  most  skilled 
needlewomen  in  Fief-Sauvin,  but  had  developed 
the  soul  in  her,  which  was  naturally  refined.  She 
had  caught  something  of  their  manners  and  tone 
from  these  women  of  humble  birth,  whose  voca- 
tion rendered  them  superior  to  their  surroundings. 
She  knew  nothing  of  the  coarse  gaiety  of  the 
country-people,  and  was  annoyed  at  the  equivocal 


28  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

jests  which  were  passed  round  at  wedding  feasts. 
The  pale  cheeks,  with  their  one  patch  of  faint 
colour  on  either  cheek-bone,  seemed  to  have 
known  the  protecting  shadow  of  the  convent  cap. 
Outside  matters  awakened  no  curiosity  in  her — 
she  had  too  much  to  do  at  home.  Her  mother 
being  dead — she  had  been  gone  now  eighteen 
months — the  duties  of  housekeeping  fell  on  her, 
and  since  her  father  worked  rarely,  if  at  all,  she 
had  to  make  money  for  both.  Nicholas  Rainette 
was  generally  willing  to  go  down  into  the  cellar 
in  the  morning  and  take  his  place  opposite  Melie, 
and  then,  clac,  clac,  clac,  clac,  the  weaving  song 
would  start,  echoed  by  the  same  clac,  clac,  clac, 
of  Melie's  machine.  He  was  a  good  weaver,  and 
the  cloth  seemed  to  roll  out  under  his  hands,  so 
quickly  did  his  shuttle  fly,  but  he  had  scarcely 
done  half-a-day's  work  before  he  would  suddenly 
disappear,  as  if  summoned  by  some  irresistible 
power. 

His  orgies  at  the  tavern  cost  him  more  than  he 
had  earned.  Furthermore,  the  manufacturer, 
who  employed  some  dozens,  at  times  some  hun- 
dreds, of  hands  and  who  supplied  the  thread  and 
paid  for  the  cloth,  would  not  put  up  with  having 
the  work  delivered  a  week  late. 

So  Melie  made  up  her  mind.  Her  own  piece 
being  finished,  she  went  on  with  the  one  left  half 
done  by  her  father,  and  when  Nicholas  Rainette 
returned  after  dark,  dead  drunk,  knocking  him- 
self against  the  wall  as  he  felt  for  his  bed,  she  rose 
from  her  task,  tired  and  content,  and  taking  her 
shawl,  went  out  for  a  turn  along  the  road. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  29 

There  were  days  when  she  sat  on  longer  to 
accomplish  some  lesser  piece  of  work  which  had 
been  committed  to  her  clever  fingers;  perhaps  a 
cap  to  mend,  a  frill  to  make  up,  or  a  monogram 
to  embroider.  Two  or  three  such  trifles  were 
generally  lying  in  her  cupboard  awaiting  a  mo- 
ment of  leisure. 

She  had  no  time,  therefore,  for  trifling.  The 
sellers  of  pigs  and  calves,  who  trotted  past  in  their 
covered  carts,  drawn  by  their  lank  horses,  cracked 
their  whips  in  vain,  for  they  never  caught  sight  of 
so  much  as  the  colour  of  the  eyes  of  the  dark  girl 
leaning  busily  over  her  weaving.  A  quick  sign  of 
recognition  was  all  she  vouchsafed  even  to  her 
older  acquaintances  of  the  village,  who  came  and 
tapped  with  their  sticks  on  the  window  frame,  by 
way  of  amusing  themselves.  But  there  came  a 
day  when  she  broke  through  her  usual  habits  in 
a  surprising  manner. 

It  was  a  morning  of  April,  the  Eve  of  Palm 
Sunday.  Pierre  had  now  been  studying  Latin 
for  six  months,  and  although  the  winter  was  over, 
and  the  sun  already  shone  warmly  down  on  his 
daily  route,  he  still  wore  the  cap  of  imitation  otter- 
skin  that  had  been  a  present  to  him  from  his 
mother  for  the  new  year,  and  of  which  the  other 
mothers  in  Fief  spoke  as  being  an  unheard-of 
luxury.  The  fur  looked  well  on  his  light-coloured 
hair.  His  blue  blouse  was  fastened  round  the 
waist  with  a  bright  leather  waistband  quite  in 
the  correct  style.  Pierre  was  beginning  to  take 
pains  with  his  appearance,  as  was  natural  to 
a  growing  youth. 


30  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

He  had  just  paused  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
road  and  was  looking  up  at  the  wistaria  growing 
over  Mere  Mitard's  house;  it  was  a  fine  old 
twisted  creeper,  from  which  were  already  hang- 
ing masses  of  downy  clusters  ready  to  break  into 
flower. 

"Good  day,  Pierre." 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  voice,  and  seeing 
the  girl  standing  in  the  doorway: 

"Is  it  you,  Melie?"  he  said  with  a  tone  of  sur- 
prise in  his  voice.  Then  he  crossed  the  road  with 
his  swinging  gait  and  joined  her  as  she  stood 
framed  in  the  doorway;  she  leant  against  the 
lintel  as  he  began  conversing  with  her. 

The  usually  pale  Melie  had  turned  a  little  red, 
partly  at  the  daring  on  her  part  of  having  ad- 
dressed him,  partly  on  account  of  his  observant 
looks.  But  she  had  had  her  reason  for  calling  him. 

"I  am  not  sure  if  I  did  right  in  calling  you  sim- 
ply by  your  name,"  she  said.  "Now  that  you  are 
studying  I  ought  perhaps  to  have  said  Monsieur 
Pierre." 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,"  said  the  young 
scholar,  who  was  inwardly  flattered.  "What 
work  have  you  there?" 

"A  piece  of  fine  mending,  so  fine  that  I  can 
hardly  see  to  do  it." 

"And  it  was  to  show  me  how  well  you  work 
that  you  called  me?  I  guessed  that  was  it,  Melie." 

"Indeed,  no  such  thing,  you  silly  boy;  I 
wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  had  any  palm  for  to- 
morrow." 

"I  don't  think  so.    Have  you  some  to  sell?" 


« 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  31 

"To  sell,  no!"  she  replied,  somewhat  offended; 
what  I  have  I  give.  Formerly,  when  all  the 
young  ladies  from  Landehue  came  here  for 
Easter,  they  used  to  strip  my  rosemary  bush. 
But  now  they  no  longer  do  this,  I  have  plenty  to 
give  to  my  friends,  if  you  would  care  to  have 
some." 

"Certainly,  Melie.  Only  let  us  make  haste,  for 
I  have  my  lesson." 

"Come,"  she  said. 

She  rose,  and  Pierre  opened  the  door  of  the 
house.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  passage  lay  the 
Rainettes'  primitive  garden  plot,  which  consisted 
of  a  small  path  between  two  ill-kept  beds;  two 
pear  trees  stood  at  the  nearer  end,  and  two  plum 
trees  at  the  other,  while  here  and  there  among  the 
cabbages  and  celery  there  was  a  clump  of  tulips 
or  of  polyanthuses  which  had  seen  many  genera- 
tions. The  rosemary  grew  in  the  farther  left-hand 
corner,  at  the  angle  of  the  quick-set  hedge,  which 
was  hidden  in  all  directions  by  its  splendid,  plume- 
like  branches,  which  formed  a  veritable  bush  of 
silvery  and  mauve  flowers.  On  the  farther  side 
ran  a  path. 

Melie  and  Pierre  went  up  to  the  rosemary 
bush,  whence  came  the  sound  of  many  humming 
bees.  Then  the  girl  began  to  cut  off  the  finest 
branches,  handing  them  one  by  one  to  her  com- 
panion. 

"See,  this  branch  is  for  your  father,  this  for 
your  mother,  this  for  Marie,  and  that  for  you." 

The  "for  you"  was  the  magnificent  top  branch 
which  crowned  the  others. 


32  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"How  sweet  they  smell,"  said  Pierre  in  response. 

"For  Jacques,  for  Antoinette,"  continued  Melie. 

"Do  you  know,  Me"lie,  that  you  are  still  taller 
than  I  am." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Pierre?" 

"Well,  look!" 

"This  for  your  farm-servant." 

She  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height  beside 
Pierre. 

"It's  true,  Melie;  your  shoulder  is  a  good  inch 
or  two  above  mine.  After  all,  it  is  not  surprising, 
for  you  are  older  than  I  am." 

"Oh!"  she  answered,  laughing,  "hardly  more 
than  a  year;  what  is  that?  Anyhow,  you  are 
already  my  elder  in  mind;  I  hear  you  are  quite 
learned!" 

"Not  yet,  Melie,  but  I  shall  be  some  day. 
What  a  kind  girl  you  are;  I  am  sorry  I  cannot 
stay  longer  with  you!" 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Melie. 

"But  my  lesson  is  awaiting  me,  and  I  am  al- 
ready late." 

She  helped  him  gather  the  flowering  branches 
together,  and  placed  them  on  his  arm,  full  of  a 
childish  joy  at  having  thought  of  them  for  the 
morrow.  He  went  back  through  the  garden,  she 
following;  he  waved  her  a  cheerful  good-by  as  he 
reached  the  door,  and  then  went  off  humming. 
She  gave  him  a  little  parting  nod,  and  watched 
his  figure  as  it  gradually  retreated  along  the  sunlit 
road  in  the  direction  of  Villeneuve. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE  abba's  pupil  made  such  rapid  progress  that 
by  the  end  of  the  first  year  of  study  his  master 
began  to  feel  uncomfortable.  The  abbe  had 
taken  what  was  considered  a  high  class  in  his 
youth,  but  that  was  now  some  time  back,  and  in 
spite  of  his  efforts  he  was  aware  of  his  own  lack  of 
knowledge  in  many  branches  of  the  vast  mass  of 
erudition  which  was  necessary  for  any  one  who 
wished  to  be  even  the  meanest  bachelor  of  arts. 
The  quick,  argumentative,  and  questioning  mind 
of  Pierre  was  becoming  embarrassing.  In  vain 
the  professor  tried  to  shield  himself  behind  such 
subterfuges  as  "it  would  be  too  long  a  matter  to 
explain  to  you,"  or  "that  is  a  delicate  point,  to 
which  we  will  return  another  time";  his  scruples 
were  not  relieved  by  these  formulas.  Certain 
solecisms,  excusable  of  their  kind,  would  return 
to  his  memory  with  the  persistence  of  remorse 
during  the  quiet  hours  of  devotion,  and  the  good 
man  would  blush  as  if  guilty  of  dishonesty  as  a 
teacher. 

"My  boy,"  he  said  one  day,  "I  am  going  to  send 
you  to  the  college,  where  they  will  be  responsible 
for  you." 

And,  in  fact,  he  carried  on  all  the  negotiations 
for  Pierre's  admittance  into  the  Seminary  at 
Beaupreau.  Hearing  from  him  of  his  pupil's 

33 


34  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

capacity,  and  taking  into  consideration  the  latter's 
advanced  age,  the  authorities  arranged  that  he 
should  be  placed  among  the  fourths. 

During  the  two  months  which  preceded  his 
entry  into  collegiate  life,  the  needles  at  La  Geni- 
viere  were  industriously  plied  in  order  to  get 
Pierre's  trousseau  ready.  All  his  linen  had  to  be 
marked  with  his  number.  Such  trousers  and  coats 
as  were  still  serviceable  were  carefully  overhauled, 
and  the  weak  places  in  them  neatly  repaired. 
The  village  tailor  had  orders  for  a  complete  suit. 
He  spent  immense  pains  upon  it,  but  his  scissors 
knew  but  one  style  of  cut,  and  the  result  was  a 
coat  which  would  have  been  quite  the  correct 
kind  of  garment  for  the  father.  Nobody,  how- 
ever, minded  this,  and  it  was  indeed  with  a  feeling 
of  maternal  pride  that  the  farmer's  wife,  having 
brushed  and  combed  her  son's  hair  on  October  3, 
said: 

"  You  will  put  on  your  new  coat,  my  Noellet,  to 
go  and  say  good-by  to  your  godfather." 

None  of  the  Noellet  children  ever  thought  of 
disputing  orders,  so  Pierre  did  as  he  was  told. 
This  visit  to  Landehue,  however,  caused  him  a 
considerable  amount  of  trepidation.  He  never 
felt  less  at  his  ease  than  on  Sundays,  when  he  met 
the  Laubriet  family  in  the  village.  In  presence  of 
these  well-dressed  and  well-bred  people  he  felt 
awkward  and  flustered.  He  studied  their  general 
appearance,  and  pondered  over  the  difference 
between  their  manners  and  his  own.  On  each  of 
these  occasions  he  was  conscious  of  an  irritability 
and  a  sense  of  confusion  of  which  he  spoke  to  no 


''THIS,   MY  SON"  35 

one,  for  neither  his  father  nor  his  sisters  appeared 
to  be  troubled  with  any  feelings  of  the  kind. 

In  proof  of  which,  behold  the  mother  already 
on  her  way,  in  gala  attire,  with  her  closely-fluted 
cap  fastened  with  a  beautiful  ribbon  bow,  her 
velvet  kerchief  looking  as  if  fresh  from  a  band- 
box, and  her  dress  held  up  with  both  hands.  As  a 
finishing  touch,  she  had  thrown  her  black  hood 
over  her  head,  not  liking  to  be  seen  only  in  a  cap 
— "en  tete  blanche,"  as  she  expressed  it — on 
such  a  solemn  occasion.  She  walked  with  her 
usual  short,  measured,  and  dignified  pace,  and  in 
spite  of  the  superb  weather,  carried  the  brown 
cotton  umbrella  which  had  done  duty  for  the 
whole  of  the  Noellet  dynasty  under  her  left  arm. 

It  was  no  great  distance  from  La  Geniviere  to 
Landehue  by  the  way  of  the  fields.  After  walking 
about  a  hundred  paces  along  the  path  which  led 
up  to  Landehue,  there  was  a  cross-bar  gate,  and 
a  little  lane  which  opened  on  the  principal  path 
across  the  fields,  a  few  clumps  of  trees,  and  then 
the  house  itself.  Pierre  longed  to  turn  and  flee. 
The  very  windows  seemed  to  be  watching  their 
approach,  and  behind  the  closed  shutters  he 
could  fancy  he  detected  smothered  bursts  of 
laughter:  "Aren't  they  a  droll  couple — look, 
Pierre  Noellet  and  his  mother?  Oh,  just  see  the 
umbrella  which  the  good  woman  is  carrying!  And 
the  boy's  coat!  Oh,  and  his  hands!" 

Pierre  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  his  hands. 
He  was  red  in  the  face,  and  bit  his  lips,  and  was 
annoyed  at  seeing  his  mother  walking  so  undis- 
turbedly beside  him,  and  stooping  down  to  exam- 


36  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

ine  the  flower-beds,  which  bordered  the  whole 
length  of  the  avenue. 

"What  lovely  flowers  they  have  here,  my 
Noellet !  But  be  sure  you  don't  pick  any  of  them ! " 

As  if,  when  one  was  past  sixteen  years  of  age, 
and  on  the  way  to  the  great  house  at  La  Landehue, 
one  had  any  wish  to  pick  flowers! 

A  footman  had  hardly  shown  them  into  the 
little  study  where  Monsieur  Laubriet  interviewed 
the  farmers,  when  the  latter  himself  entered.  On 
seeing  the  farmer's  wife,  he  gave  a  friendly  wave 
of  the  arm  by  way  of  greeting  and  invitation. 

"My  good  woman,"  he  said,  "this  is  not  the 
place  in  which  to  receive  you.  Bring  this  young 
collegian  into  the  drawing-room;  the  ladies  will 
be  delighted  to  see  him." 

"You  are  too  good,  Monsieur  Hubert."  And 
without  further  ceremony  she  walked  out  after 
Monsieur  Laubriet,  who  had  taken  hold  of  Pierre's 
arm. 

"Ah,  ah!  your  son  is  the  pride  and  glory  of 
Fief-Sauvin."  Pierre  slipped  and  stumbled  over 
the  parquetted  floor  of  the  corridor,  and  over  the 
Italian  mosaic  of  the  hall,  and  his  heart  beat  furi- 
ously as,  having  reached  the  drawing-room,  Mon- 
sieur Laubriet  threw  open  the  door,  saying  as  he 
did  so: 

"My  dear,  let  me  introduce  one  of  the  new 
fourths  to  you.  Only  a  year's  training;  it  is 
marvellous,  marvellous!" 

Pierre  was  quick  to  perceive  a  slight  gesture  of 
ill-temper  on  the  part  of  Madame  Laubriet — a 
tall,  strongly  built  woman,  who  had  not  lost  all 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  37 

her  beauty;  she  was  reposing  drowsily  in  her  cane 
arm-chair,  which  was  decorated  with  wool  pom- 
pons. 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Come  in,  Pierre." 

He  advanced  toward  her,  redder  than  the  cerise- 
coloured  hangings  and  furniture  of  the  huge  room, 
dazzled  by  the  reflection  of  the  mirrors,  by  the 
gilding  and  the  chandeliers,  intoxicated  with  the 
scent  of  verbena,  a  delicate  perfume  to  which  he 
was  a  stranger.  Behind  him  he  could  hear  the 
clamp  of  his  mother's  iron-tipped  shoes. 

Madame  Laubriet  made  a  sign  to  him  to  take 
a  seat  on  the  divan  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
from  the  centre  of  which  rose  a  jardiniere  full  of 
ferns.  Pierre  thought  she  was  holding  out  her 
hand  to  him,  and  awkwardly  seized  the  chate- 
laine's white  plump  fingers,  and  then,  in  his  po- 
liteness, not  wishing  to  turn  his  back  upon  her, 
retired,  facing  her,  and  sat  down  on  an  open  book. 
He  got  up  quickly,  and  put  the  book  aside.  At 
the  end  of  the  room  near  the  windows,  which  were 
shaded  with  light,  cream-coloured  curtains,  Mon- 
sieur Laubriet's  two  daughters — children  respec- 
tively of  fifteen  and  twelve  years  of  age — leaned 
forward  as  if  to  pick  up  a  pencil  that  had  fallen, 
in  reality  to  conceal  an  irresistible  fit  of  laughter. 

Monsieur  Laubriet  called  out  imperiously  to  the 
eldest  girl: 

"Madeleine!" 

"Yes,  papa." 

"Do  you  see  who  is  here?  What  can  you  be 
thinking  of?" 


38  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

They  turned  to  Pierre  Noellet. 

"My  daughters  are  learning  water  colours  with 
one  of  our  friends  from  Paris." 

The  friend,  in  white  curl  papers,  put  up  her  eye- 
glass, but  did  not  move.  The  two  girls  rose,  the 
elder  tall  and  slender,  in  a  white  flannel  dress  with 
sailor  collar,  proud  of  her  chestnut  hair,  which 
she  had  just  begun  to  put  up  with  a  comb,  and 
fully  assured  of  the  royalty  of  her  young  woman- 
hood, since  she  had  seen  it  mirrored  in  her  father's 
eyes;  the  younger  thick-set  and  brusque,  with 
a  plait  of  fair  hair  hanging  down  her  back. 

Madeleine,  obedient  to  her  father's  wish,  smiled 
and  shook  hands  with  Pierre  Noellet.  "It  is  kind 
of  you  to  come,"  she  said  to  the  farmer's  wife. 

Marthe  planted  herself  squarely  in  front  of 
Pierre,  who  had  been  such  a  capital  bird's-nester 
in  his  time,  and  with  a  little  wink,  remarked: 
"I  have  seen  your  goat;  what  a  funny  animal 
His!" 

"Is  my  friend  Marie  quite  well?"  continued  the 
elder  girl.  "I  am  hoping  to  see  her  one  of  these 
days." 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,  very  well." 

"And  la  Huasse  has  a  foal;  you  haven't  seen 
it,  have  you,  Madeleine?" 

"Oh!  have  you  got  a  foal?"  said  Madeleine, 
who  was  greatly  interested  in  horses  now  that  she 
was  allowed  to  ride  with  her  father. 

"What  do  you  call  it,  Pierre?" 

"La  Roussette,  mademoiselle." 

"Is  it  pretty?" 

"Yes." 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  39 

"I  shall  come  and  see  it.  You'll  sell  it  me, 
won't  you,  when  it  is  full  grown?" 

Something  that  overcame  his  timidity  caused 
the  farmer's  son  to  lift  his  head.  He  threw  a  rapid 
glance  over  the  figure  of  the  girl  in  front  of  him, 
as  she  stood  a  few  paces  off  in  all  the  pride  of  her 
youth  and  grace. 

"It  is  not  for  sale,"  he  said. 

"What  are  you  saying?"  put  in  Mere  Noellet, 
taken  aback  by  his  answer;  "if  mademoiselle 
wishes  for  it " 

"You  will  use  it  for  hunting,  perhaps,"  said 
Madeleine,  showing  her  white  teeth. 

Pierre  was  not  one  of  the  obstinate  and  touchy 
sons  of  La  Vendee  for  nothing.  This  time  he 
looked  the  girl  straight  hi  the  face  as  he  answered: 

"Yes,  if  I  wish  to." 

Every  one  laughed  at  his  way  of  answering. 

Madame  Laubriet  opportunely  turned  to  him, 
and  said: 

"We  have  all  been  extremely  pleased,  my  dear 
child,  to  hear  that  you  are  to  begin  studying  at 
Beaupre"au;  and  still  more  to  know  of  the  motive 
which  is  urging  you  to  study." 

"Yes,  of  course,  the  motive — "  put  in  Made- 
leine, who  appeared  to  have  no  idea  what  the 
motive  was,  but  who  was  anxious  to  atone  for  her 
former  speech.  "You  will  meet  our  cousin  there; 
did  you  know  that,  Pierre?" 

"My  nephew,  the  Viscount  of  Ponthual?" 
added  Madame  Laubriet,  who  had  no  dislike  to 
reminding  people  that  she  was  born  of  one  of  the 
noble  families  of  the  country. 


40  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"Cousin  Jules  is  stupid!"  exclaimed  Marthe, 
"and  idle  as  well!  You  will  have  no  difficulty  in 
getting  ahead  of  him." 

Madeleine  coloured  slightly. 

"That  child  is  unbearable  to-day,"  she  said, 
"talking  in  that  random  way.  Jules  is  not  a  very 
steady  worker,  it  is  true,  but  he  has  been  delicate 
for  a  long  time.  One  can  hardly  put  that  down 
to  him  as  a  crime." 

"And  more  than  that,  he  is  a  good  boy,"  con- 
tinued Madame  Laubriet  in  a  conciliatory  tone — 
"too  good  and  too  rich.  He  is,  however,  two 
classes  above  you,  so  there  will  be  no  occasion  for 
you  to  contend  with  him." 

Then,  in  a  more  lively  voice,  and  in  a  tone  of 
dismissal,  she  turned  and  addressed  the  mother: 

"When  my  husband  goes  to  visit  his  nephew  at 
the  college  he  will  ask  to  see  your  son  too." 

"Most  certainly,"  said  Monsieur  Laubriet. 
"My  godson  and  my  nephew — two  friends  of  the 
house." 

"You  will  do  him  great  honour,"  replied  little 
Mere  Noellet. 

And,  thoroughly  satisfied  with  her  visit,  she 
made  her  obeisance  and  left  the  room  followed  by 
her  son,  calmly  took  repossession  of  her  umbrella, 
which  she  had  left  beside  the  door,  and  tucked  up 
her  dress  again  in  preparation  for  the  homeward 
walk. 

The  next  day  the  whole  of  the  Noellet  family 
might  be  seen  on  their  way  to  Beaupreau  seated 
behind  la  Huasse,  who  trotted  along  at  her  usual 
brisk  pace,  the  three  men  on  the  front  seat  of  the 


''THIS,   MY   SON"  41 

cart  with  the  collegian's  boar-skin  trunk,  and  the 
women  at  the  back,  each  having  a  pointed  ker- 
chief tied  over  her  best  cap  on  account  of  the  wind. 
They  were  not  talking,  for  they  none  of  them  felt 
very  gay  at  heart.  The  departure  of  one  of  their 
number  for  college  was  to  each,  for  different  rea- 
sons, more  or  less  of  a  trouble.  It  was  a  strange 
and  unknown  experience  among  the  race  of  la- 
bourers, this  early  separation  from  a  child,  who, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  college,  would  have  re- 
mained under  the  paternal  roof  until  he  was  one- 
and-twenty.  For  Jacques  and  Antoinette  it  also 
meant  the  loss  of  a  lively  companion.  What  was 
worse  still,  Pierre  would  return  home  only  at  rare 
intervals,  and  then  but  for  a  brief  stay;  and  when 
he  did  return,  it  would  not  be  as  the  same  boy,  but 
as  a  changed  youth,  who  would  have  grown  dif- 
ferent to  those  left  behind.  The  family  were  deeply 
affected  at  this  parting  from  Pierre.  Julien,  the 
father,  sat  silently  ruminating  as  he  held  the  reins; 
now  and  again  when  they  reached  the  higher 
ground  he  would  turn  round  to  ask  the  women  if 
their  feet  were  cold.  The  mother,  catching  sight  of 
a  vehicle  following  them  at  some  distance  along 
the  road,  and  evidently  bearing  a  student  to  the 
same  destination,  would  address  her  son  in  as 
cheerful  a  tone  as  possible,  in  order  to  keep  up  his 
spirits  and  accustom  him  to  the  coming  change. 

"Look,  my  boy,  here  is  some  one  from  our 
neighbourhood — a  boy  from  Landermont  this 
time.  You  see  you  will  not  be  alone." 

It  was  not  long  before  they  came  in  sight  of 
Beaupreau,  which  is  crowded  by  the  woods  of  the 


42  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

estate  of  the  Civrac  family,  and  began  to  descend 
the  hill  leading  to  the  lower  town,  where  the  col- 
lege stands  beside  the  river  Evre.  The  farmer  put 
up  his  cart  at  the  little  inn,  where  there  was  as 
much  bustle  going  on,  owing  to  the  return  of  the 
students,  as  if  it  had  been  a  market  day.  Then 
for  the  next  few  hours  it  was  nothing  but  a  regu- 
lar procession  backward  and  forward  from  one 
part  of  the  little  town  to  the  other,  broken  by 
long-standing  pauses,  for  there  were  friends  to  call 
on,  and  shopping  to  do,  and  men  to  be  engaged 
who  were  wanted  for  some  work  or  other  at  La 
Geniviere. 

Everywhere  it  was  the  same  greeting:  "Ah,  there 
you  are,  Maitre  Noellet,  and  that's  your  boy,  is 
it?  How  he  has  grown!  Well,  he  will  have  to  be 
steady  now!" 

Pierre  followed  with  lagging  feet,  looking  va- 
cantly about  and  wrapped  in  thought,  while  his 
brother  kept  close  to  him,  holding  his  hand  as  if 
he  could  never  let  him  go. 

Now  and  again  the  girls  at  work  at  the  back  of 
a  shop,  who  almost  considered  themselves  young 
ladies  of  the  town,  would  look  up,  and  seeing  the 
fine,  strong  figure  of  the  boy,  would  bend  their 
heads  down  again,  laughing  among  themselves,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  He  is  a  fool  to  go  and  shut  him- 
self up!" 

It  was  the  first  thought  that  came  to  Pierre  when 
he  passed  the  porter's  lodge  into  the  entrance 
court.  The  little  seminary  at  Beaupre"au  was  not 
then  repaired  and  whitewashed,  as  it  is  now.  The 
side  facing  the  road,  with  its  high,  dark  walls,  was 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  43 

peculiarly  discouraging,  and  had  the  appearance 
of  a  barrack. 

The  Noellets  defiled  in  procession  across  the 
outer  and  inner  court,  and  found  themselves 
eventually  in  front  of  the  chief  fagade,  and  on  the 
terrace  which  overlooks  the  playgrounds  and  the 
fields  beside  the  Evre.  Here  were  gathered  family 
groups,  pupils  and  parents,  arrived  from  all  parts 
of  military  La  Vendee.  Several  had  been  standing 
for  hours  in  the  same  place,  stationed  round  the 
same  orange-tub,  chattering  together  as  if  they  were 
at  a  fair,  and  with  the  naive  ease  o  behaviour  of 
people  who  feel  at  home  anywhere  between  the 
SeVre  and  the  Loire.  The  head  of  the  college  went 
from  one  to  the  other,  obliged  to  make  himself 
agreeable  to  each  in  turn,  and  valiantly  perform- 
ing his  enforced  service,  although  worn  out  with 
the  lavish  distribution  of  his  smiles  and  assur- 
ances. He  came  up  to  the  Noellets,  and,  after 
exchanging  a  few  words  with  them,  turned  to 
Pierre. 

"  Carry  your  box  into  the  dormitory  of  the 
juniors.  You  know  where  it  is?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Well,  some  one  will  show  you." 

Pierre  and  Jacques  lifted  the  trunk  and  ran  off 
with  it.  On  arriving  at  the  foot  of  a  stone  stair- 
case, where  students  of  all  ages  were  hurrying  up 
and  down  with  a  deafening  clatter  of  feet,  they 
asked  their  way  to  the  dormitory.  They  were 
answered  with  peals  of  laughter.  Feeling  some- 
what put  out,  they  mounted  to  the  first  landing 
and  went  along  the  passage.  Suddenly  a  student 


44  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

rushed  out  upon  them  from  one  of  the  window 
recesses. 

"Sapristi,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  you  frightened 
me!  I  was  lighting  a  cigarette.  What  is  your 
name — you,  the  big  one?" 

"Pierre  Noellet." 

"And  I  am  Arsene  Loubret.  But  where  are 
you  taking  that  box?  These  are  the  masters' 
rooms." 

The  youth  who  was  addressing  them  was  low  of 
stature,  and  his  broad,  short  face  was  covered 
with  freckles.  There  was  a  look  of  dissipation  in 
the  round,  quick,  inquisitive  eyes.  Good-natured 
he  certainly  was,  since  he  did  not  hesitate  to  ex- 
tinguish his  cigarette  and  put  it  in  his  pocket 
while  he  led  the  two  boys  to  the  dormitory  they 
were  seeking. 

"Forty-seven;  this  is  your  number." 

Jacques  gave  a  scared  look  round  the  large 
whitewashed  room,  at  the  iron  bedsteads  stand- 
ing in  rows,  and  at  the  two  cast-iron  basins  sur- 
mounted with  taps  in  the  shape  of  swan-bills;  his 
astonishment  seemed  quickly  to  give  way  to  a 
feeling  of  discomfort.  All  those  people  in  one 
room!  What  would  become  of  his  brother  in 
such  a  place  ?  He  made  haste  to  get  out  of  the 
house,  and,  once  outside,  breathed  heavily  for  a 
few  minutes,  as  if  he  had  been  stifled  in  that 
upstairs-room. 

The  two  brothers  rejoined  the  rest  of  their  party 
on  the  terrace.  But  during  their  short  absence, 
which  had  been  felt  as  the  beginning  of  the  final 
separation,  the  faces  of  the  family  had  grown 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  45 

longer.  His  mother,  who  had  borne  up  bravely 
till  then,  was  now  red  about  the  eyes.  She  threw 
her  arms  round  her  son's  neck  and  held  him  in 
a  long  embrace,  as  if  she  would  leave  behind  a 
store  of  kisses  and  love  to  support  the  young  life 
that  was  to  be  for  the  first  time  withdrawn  from 
her  protection.  Marie,  more  mistress  of  herself, 
and  more  conscious  of  the  presence  of  lookers-on, 
although  her  absence  of  colour  and  abrupt  nervous 
manner  of  speaking  betrayed  her  emotion,  gave 
Pierre  a  rapid  kiss  "Au  rev&ir,"  she  said.  "The  new 
year  will  soon  come  round,  and  I  shall  make  a  pie 
in  honour  of  your  arrival."  Antoinette  made  no 
attempt  at  hiding  her  weeping,  while  the  father, 
anxious  to  conceal  his  feelings,  walked  off  every 
minute  or  so  to  examine  the  sky,  over  which  some 
heavy  clouds  were  gathering.  He  seized  his  son's 
hand  in  his  own  horny  one,  and  with  some  abrupt- 
ness, "Go,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "and  be  an  honour 
to  us."  Last  of  all  Jacques  came  up,  and  clasping 
his  brother  round  the  waist  looked  up  into  his  face, 
lifting  his  red  head  and  murmuring,  "Pierre!  my 
Pierre!"  The  one  word  expressed  everything:  all 
his  past  affection,  his  present  sorrow,  and  the  joy 
it  would  be  to  see  him  again.  The  elder  could 
with  difficulty  disengage  himself.  At  last  he  es- 
caped and  ran  off,  looking  back  to  throw  a  smile 
to  those  belonging  to  him,  and  in  four  strides  had 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  twenty  steps  that  lead 
to  the  court. 

But  Jacques  had  followed  him,  and  seating  him- 
self on  the  parapet  of  the  terrace,  began  calling, 
"Pierre!  Pierre!"  and  the  child,  so  full  of  tender 


46  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

and  brotherly  affection,  was  only  at  last  driven 
away  by  the  shouts  of  the  excited  students. 

A  few  minutes  later  Pierre  heard  what  he 
thought  was  the  cart  from  La  Geniviere  passing 
along  the  road  that  skirted  the  seminary.  How 
often  on  late  evenings,  when  his  father  was  ex- 
pected home  at  the  close  of  some  fair-day,  had  he 
listened  for  the  sound  of  la  Huasse's  hoofs  and 
the  particular  creak  of  one  of  the  springs  of  the 
cart,  he,  and  his  brothers  and  sisters,  amusing 
themselves  with  guessing  if  it  was  he  while  still 
a  long  way  off!  He  was  surprised  himself  at  his 
own  freedom  from  emotion.  He  would  have  been 
more  surprised .  still,  could  he  have  seen  the  sor- 
rowful faces,  and  the  sadness  and  anxiety  of  all 
those  kindly  souls  who  were  father,  mother,  sis- 
ters and  brother  to  him,  and  who  were  in  truth  at 
that  moment  driving  up  the  shorter  road  past  the 
college,  and  above  all,  had  he  realized  what  rich 
possessions  were  his  at  that  young  stage  of  life,  or 
guessed  that  a  later  day  would  come  when  there 
would  be  no  longer  a  little  sister,  no  longer  a 
mother  with  heart  full  of  love  for  him,  no  longer 
a  Jacques  clinging  broken-hearted  to  the  brother 
who  was  leaving  him. 

Pierre  Noellet  thought  of  none  of  these  things. 
He  stood  alone,  leaning  against  one  of  the  lime- 
trees  of  the  court,  watching  the  other  students 
near  him,  who  in  their  turn  made  this  new  arrival 
the  object  of  their  attention.  Pierre  was  partic- 
ularly interested  in  one  fat,  chubby-faced  youth 
who  was  distinguished  from  his  companions,  who 
were  for  the  most  part  quietly  clad  in  black  coats 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  47 

or  jackets,  in  trousers  that  were  too  short  for  them, 
and  thick  walking  shoes,  by  a  certain  air  of  dis- 
tinction about  his  get  up — the  tail  coat,  the  white 
collar  with  turned-down  corners,  the  polished 
boots — while  his  well-nourished  appearance  and 
slightly  insolent  manner  denoted  a  person  of 
wealth.  He  was  some  one  to  be  afraid  of,  it  would 
seem,  for  he  spoke  in  a  loud  voice  which  was  evi- 
dently habitual  with  him.  For  some  five  minutes 
he  had  been  the  centre  of  a  group  of  his  particular 
friends,  standing  taller  than  all  of  them  by  a 
head,  questioning  them  about  the  new-comer. 

"Noellet?"  he  inquired  of  one  of  them.  "Are 
you  sure?" 

"Quite  sure;  I  heard  the  master  call  him  by 
that  name  a  few  minutes  ago;  he  comes  from 
Fief-Sauvin." 

"It's  he,  then." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"Not  personally;  you  understand  he  is  only 
a  small  farmer-tenant  of  my  Uncle  Laubriet. 
Does  he  look  somewhat  of  a  muff?" 

"Well,  I  must  say  he  does." 

"And  not  very  pleased  that  we  should  be  talk- 
ing about  him.  You  new  young  one  down  there, 
if  you  don't  like  us  talking  about  you  come  and 
say  so  to  me." 

The  blood  mounted  to  Pierre's  face.  He  longed 
to  exchange  a  blow  or  two  with  the  impertinent 
youngster  who  lied  out  of  sheer  vanity  in  repre- 
senting his  father  as  a  tenant  of  La  Landehue, 
and  the  temptation  was  growing  stronger,  when 
Loutrel  came  up  to  him.  The  latter  was  no  fop, 


48  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

although  by  no  means  careless  in  his  attire. 
Pierre  hailed  him  as  a  saviour. 

"Who  is  that  tall  fellow  who  stands  spouting 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets?  " 

"Jules  de  Ponthual,  one  of  the  seconds." 

"I  do  not  like  the  look  of  him." 

"He's  a  brute;  beware  of  him  when  he  is  throw- 
ing a  ball." 

"Is  he  strong?" 

"Yes,  with  his  hands,"  answered  Loutrel,  laugh- 
ing, and  his  mean  little  face  grew  as  puckered  as 
a  squashed  bladder. 

The  conversation  was  cut  short,  for  a  bell 
sounded,  and  a  flock  of  sparrows,  well  acquainted 
with  the  rules  of  the  seminary,  alighted  on  the 
lime-trees:  the  recreation  hour  was  over.  The 
students,  ranging  themselves  in  two  lines,  their 
voices  becoming  gradually  hushed  under  the  eye 
of  the  master,  silently  passed  up  the  steps  of  the 
terrace,  and  disappeared  one  by  one  through  the 
doors  of  the  various  class-rooms. 

College  life  had  begun  again. 


CHAPTER  V. 


PIEERE  NOELLET  soon  grew  accustomed  to  his 
new  surroundings.  A  few  months  were  required 
to  fill  up  certain  omissions  in  his  previous  train- 
ing, to  show  him  where  he  was  behind  his  compan- 
ions, and  to  teach  him  what  classic  models  were 
most  in  favour  with  his  teacher,  but  at  the  end  of 
this  time  he  took  the  head  of  his  class  and  re- 
mained there.  He  gained  several  prizes  the  first 
year;  the  second  year  he  took  them  all.  After 
that  it  was  an  understood  thing  that  Pierre  Noel- 
let  of  Fief-Sauvin  was  above  the  usual  level,  and 
that  no  one  had  any  chance  of  competing  with 
him.  Quick  of  intelligence,  and  at  the  same  time 
patient,  Pierre  had  that  further  excellent  quality 
of  the  scholar  of  being  equally  developed  on  all 
sides.  He  was  first  in  mathematics  and  in  French 
prose,  first  in  Latin  verse  and  in  Greek  exercise. 
Endless  rounds  of  applause  greeted  him  on  the 
day  the  prizes  were  distributed,  his  name  being 
called  fifteen  times,  while  little  Mere  Noellet  sat 
in  a  corner  covered  with  confusion,  conspicuous 
by  the  laurel  wreaths  that  lay  heaped  upon  her 
lap.  If  the  bishop  or  any  other  person  of  distinc- 
tion came  to  visit  the  college,  it  was  Pierre  who 
was  chosen  for  the  complimentary  address. 

Other  honours  of  a  still  higher  class  and  more 
flattering  still  awaited  him  at  the  "Academies" — 

49 


50  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

literary  meetings  to  which  only  the  most  advanced 
students  of  the  higher  classes  were  invited,  and  at 
which  each  of  these  in  turn  read  an  original  com- 
position in  prose  or  verse.  On  these  occasions 
a  stage  was  mounted  in  the  large  reception  room 
made  to  represent  a  modern  drawing-room,  with 
a  bust  of  Moses,  recognizable  by  his  flowing  beard, 
to  the  right,  and  one  of  David,  with  his  harp  at 
his  breast,  on  the  left.  The  orchestra  was  seated 
at  the  back,  while  in  front  were  the  five  elected 
orators,  their  rolled  manuscripts  in  their  hands — 
one  philosopher,  two  rhetoricians,  and  two  tall 
boys  from  the  seconds — looking  somewhat  awk- 
ward and  frightened,  but  with  eyes  whose  expres- 
sion of  unsullied  youth  spoke  much  for  the  excel- 
lence of  the  race,  and  for  the  surroundings  amidst 
which  they  were  brought  up.  When  the  head- 
master arose  and  gave  out  the  name  "  Monsieur 
Pierre  Noellet  of  Fief-Sauvin,  of  the  Seconds," 
a  flattering  murmur  ran  through  the  audience. 
The  reading  finished,  the  band  struck  up  some 
ancient  air,  while  the  son  of  the  farmer  of  La 
Geniviere  sat  down  amidst  applause,  and  as  he 
saw  all  those  extended  hands,  all  those  eyes  turned 
toward  him  with  looks  of  admiration  or  envy,  he 
felt  himself  king  of  that  little  world,  the  unques- 
tioned victor  in  that  first  contest  with  those  of  his 
own  rank  and  those  above  him.  He  had  no 
means  of  comparing  his  triumph  with  that  of 
others,  and  therefore  exaggerated  its  importance. 
Like  the  taciturn  peasant  of  the  Mauges  that  he 
was,  he  slowly  and  silently  grew  intoxicated  with 
his  success.  The  mute  processes  of  thought  in 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  51 

which  he  indulged  led  him  to  the  conviction  that 
the  intellect  was  the  sole  sovereign  of  the  world, 
capable  of  securing  to  its  possessor  the  same  high 
rank  everywhere  that  he  held  at  college. 

And  he  was  encouraged  in  this  proud  illusion 
by  Arsene  Loutrel.  The  son  of  a  village  manu- 
facturer, who  did  some  business  also  in  money- 
lending,  he  had  been  born  and  brought  up  among 
a  growing  population  of  middle-class  people,  and 
was  imbued  with  all  their  prejudices,  hatreds, 
distastes,  and  instincts  of  flattery.  Chance  had 
led  him  to  be  the  protector  of  Pierre  Noellet  on 
his  first  arrival,  as  well  as  his  initiator  into  his  new 
life.  When  Pierre  had  risen  to  a  privileged  rank  in 
the  estimation  of  his  school-fellows  and  masters, 
Loutrel  was  clever  enough  to  profit  by  it.  He 
understood  how  to  flatter  his  friend,  to  gain  his 
confidence,  and  to  reap  the  advantage  of  his  un- 
sullied reputation,  and  thus,  though  inferior  in 
character,  and  of  far  less  ability,  he  gained  an  in- 
credible ascendancy  over  a  nature  in  every  way 
superior  to  his  own. 

The  chief  opportunities  for  conversation  were 
on  the  days  when  they  went  for  a  walk  and  a  halt 
was  called  after  a  long  march  at  one  of  the  tradi- 
tional spots  of  rest — a  crossway,  a  clearing  in  the 
wood,  a  mound  that  remained  from  a  Roman 
camp,  or  under  the  trees  beside  the  Evre,  near  a 
garden  that  had  run  wild,  surnamed  by  them 
"La  Mere-au-Buis,"  on  account  of  the  shrubs  that 
for  some  unknown  reason  grew  here  and  there 
about  the  place.  Pierre  loved  this  little  corner  of 
country,  with  the  water  running  at  his  feet  and 


52  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

curling  the  water-lily  stems,  the  swinging  sails  of 
the  windmill  to  the  left,  and  facing  him  on  the 
further  side  of  the  river  the  red  roof  and  the 
spreading  vine  of  the  farm  of  Roche-Baraton, 
which  reminded  him  of  La  Geniviere. 

One  day  when  he  and  Loutrel  were  sitting  here 
together,  while  their  companions  raced  about  the 
slope  of  the  chestnut  grove  chasing  a  squirrel  of 
which  they  had  caught  sight  of  the  red  tail,  or 
amused  themselves  fishing  with  some  primitive 
lines  to  which  a  bent  pin  was  attached,  they  be- 
gan talking  about  the  future. 

"I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind  what  I  am  going 
to  be,"  said  Loutrel. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Pierre. 

"An  architect." 

"Well,  it  must  be  a  fine  thing  to  build  castles 
and  churches  and  public  monuments,  and  to  in- 
vent new  styles  appropriate  to  the  new  demands." 

"Pooh!"  laughed  Loutrel;  "I  am  not  aiming 
at  anything  as  high  as  that,  I  assure  you.  New 
ideas,  I  leave  those  to  others.  Five  per  cent,  on  the 
work,  that  is  the  part  of  the  trade  that  appeals  to 
me.  For  that  price  I  will  build  houses  of  any 
number  of  floors,  farms,  barns,  or  pig-styes,  if 
any  one  wants  them,  with  as  much  pleasure  as  I 
would  build  a  palace." 

"I  always  told  you,  Loutrel,  that  you  had  a 
commonplace  mind." 

Instead  of  showing  any  anger  at  this  remark, 
Loutrel  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  replied: 

"Practical,  you  mean;  don't  let  us  confound 
the  two.  You  are  for  the  higher  things,  I  for  the 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  53 

plain  realities.  I  know  how  to  calculate;  I  don't 
spend  my  time  dreaming.  When  I  was  no  higher 
than  that,  my  father  called  me  into  his  room  one 
day,  and,  tapping  his  pocket,  said  to  me,  '  Never 
forget,  little  one,  that  two  and  two  make  five.' 
He  understood  how  to  live,  did  my  father." 

"That  was  not  what  I  was  taught,"  said  Noellet 
scornfully.  "Where  shall  you  go  to  learn  your 
profession  of  architect?  " 

"To  the  School  of  Fine  Arts." 

"At  Paris,  I  suppose." 

"Certainly.  I  shall  go  there  for  three  years, 
taking  with  me  an  introduction  to  an  architect 
and  to  a  professor  at  the  school.  I  then  return 
to  Clisson,  and  buy  Monsieur  Lafeuillade's  busi- 
ness, which  he  has  almost  agreed  to  make  over  to 
me.  He  makes  on  an  average  nineteen  thousand 
francs  a  year." 

"Everything  seems  to  fit  in  admirably,  and 
I  congratulate  you  on  being  able  to  see  the  way 
before  you  so  clearly.  Do  your  parents  approve 
of  your  plans?" 

"It  is  they  who  have  so  advised  me,  and  who 
have  decided  that  I  shall  go  to  Paris  instead  of 
vegetating  in  a  provincial  training-school,  and 
who  have  cautiously  approached  Monsieur  La- 
feuillade  on  the  matter.  You  have  not  had  the 
same  chances,  Noellet;  you  were  obliged  to 
choose  a  profession  for  yourself.  What  made  you 
first  think  of  becoming  a  priest?" 

"Well,  how  do  ideas  generally  come  to  people?" 
answered  Pierre  somewhat  brusquely. 

"I  don't  say  it  was  a  bad  idea,  but  why  that 


54  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

profession  rather  than  any  other?  With  your 
powers  there  is  nothing  you  might  not  try  for." 

Pierre  tried  to  look  into  his  companion's  eyes, 
which  were  wandering  and  restless  as  usual,  to 
make  sure  that  he  was  not  laughing  at  him,  and, 
seeing  that  it  was  not  so : 

''But  what  sort  of  thing,"  he  asked. 

"Anything  and  everything,  as  I  said  before. 
A  fellow  like  you  can  be  whatever  he  likes — 
a  lawyer,  a  doctor,  journalist,  magistrate,  or  for 
all  I  know,  a  state  councillor." 

It  is  to  be  doubted  whether  Loutrel  had  any 
clear  idea  of  the  duties  of  a  state  councillor. 

Noellet  remained  silent.  He  had  fallen  into  a 
reverie.  The  fanner  had  just  closed  the  mill 
sluice,  and  he  watched  the  water  of  the  river  as  it 
rose  to  the  level  of  the  moss-grown  stones  of  the 
embankment,  washed  over  them  and  fell  back  in 
cascades,  hiding  in  its  fall  thousands  of  little  air- 
filled  hollows  that  shone  like  mother-of-pearl. 

"Fall  in,  Monsieur  Noellet!  Monsieur  Loutrel, 
fall  in!"  cried  the  voice  of  the  master. 

Pierre  rose.  Then  he  rushed  with  impetuosity 
down  the  slope,  winding  in  and  out  among  the 
chestnut-trees.  He  was  full  of  superb  nervous 
energy,  and  his  foot  was  accustomed  to  the  steep 
paths  of  the  hills.  It  took  him  no  more  than  a 
minute  to  join  his  division,  while  Loutrel  was  left 
far  behind,  catching  his  feet  in  the  roots  and 
stumbling  over  the  stones. 

In  his  heart  of  hearts  he  had  but  a  poor  opinion 
of  Loutrel.  The  instinct  of  the  peasant  in  him 
could  detect  the  vulgarity  of  this  provincial  child 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  55 

of  the  town,  and  the  frank  and  upright  soul  that 
he  had  inherited  from  his  mother  warned  him 
against  a  nature  of  such  precocity  and  inferior 
qualities.  And  yet,  every  day,  dinner  was  no 
sooner  over  than  he  went  to  Loutrel  to  join  his 
side  in  the  game,  or,  if  wet,  to  walk  up  and  down 
with  him  under  the  gymnasium  shed.  The  truth 
was  that  Loutrel  was  not  only  full  of  insinuation 
and  flattery,  but  among  the  simple-minded  farm- 
ers' sons  who  formed  the  majority  of  the  stu- 
dents, good  fellows  ah1,  and  somewhat  chary  of 
speech,  there  was  not  one  who  possessed  such  a 
comparatively  large  knowledge  of  the  world,  not 
one  who  could  tell  such  an  amusing  tale  of  the 
scandalous  sort  rife  in  large  market  towns,  with 
which  he  had  been  familiar  since  childhood.  He 
spoke  with  familiarity  of  Paris,  which  he  had  vis- 
ited when  twelve  years  old;  of  Nantes,  where  he 
occasionally  stayed;  of  trades,  which  he  had 
studied  with  his  father;  of  balls,  of  politics,  of 
fashions;  of  a  multitude  of  things  of  which  his 
listeners  had  for  the  most  part  only  a  confused 
idea.  They  laughed  and  made  fun,  these  boys 
who  were  no  more  than  children,  when  they  heard 
Loutrel  boasting  and  expounding  his  theories 
about  the  world  and  about  money.  They  much 
preferred  balls  and  hoops,  or  running  races  on 
stilts.  What  did  it  all  matter  to  them?  Did  not 
their  own  simple,  upright  hearts  supply  them  with 
the  highest  knowledge  of  life?  Was  there  not  a 
directing  voice  that  left  them  in  no  doubt  which 
way  they  were  to  go — a  voice  that  they  had 
known  in  childhood,  and  which  they  as  truthfully 


56  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

and  undoubtingly  obeyed  now  as  then?  But 
Pierre  Noellet  was  not  only  older  than  most  of  the 
others,  he  was  of  a  different  stamp  of  nature  alto- 
gether. His  restless  spirit  found  pleasure  only 
in  wandering  beyond  the  present  moment.  The 
world,  the  future,  the  unknown — these  had  from 
the  outset  lured  him  on.  He  was  unable  to  resist 
even  the  semblance  of  these  things,  and  he  fol- 
lowed those  who  presented  themselves  in  their 
name.  His  intimacy  with  Loutrel,  therefore, 
although  at  first  sight  incomprehensible,  was  not 
to  be  lightly  accounted  for,  since  at  the  bottom 
of  it  lay  Pierre's  flattered  vanity  and  his  insatiable 
curiosity. 

His  masters  began  to  notice  his  quick  changes 
of  temper.  A  bad  mark  or  a  word  of  reproof 
would  be  followed  by  days  of  sulkiness.  Nor 
were  they  well  pleased  at  the  intimacy  which  had 
sprung  up  between  him  and  Loutrel.  It  was  dis- 
quieting to  them,  for  they  had  a  fellow  feeling  for 
one  so  richly  gifted  in  nature,  and  as  time  went 
on,  they  became  more  and  more  alarmed  at  the 
symptoms  which  displayed  themselves  hi  their 
pupil.  One  of  them,  an  old,  stout,  white-haired 
professor,  who  had  voluntarily  buried  himself, 
his  scholarship,  and  his  unusual  talents  as  an 
orator,  in  the  collegiate  life  of  a  teacher,  openly 
spoke  of  it  to  Noellet.  More  than  once  he  led  him 
aside  into  a  sheltered  spot  of  the  garden,  which 
was  his  favourite  promenade,  and  where  the  sun 
had  but  to  show  its  nose  to  feel  warm,  and  there, 
in  a  paternal  manner,  he  reminded  the  young  man 
that  there  was  something — nay,  many  things — of 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  57 

greater  value  than  success,  and  he  led  him  back, 
as  to  a  healthy  spring,  to  the  thought  of  the  voca- 
tion he  had  chosen  as  a  child.  And  he  grew  elo- 
quent as  he  talked,  with  the  additional  authority 
of  one  who  had  practised  what  he  preached.  He 
might  with  truth  have  said:  " Do  as  I  have  done; 
spend  yourself  on  the  little  ones,  on  the  poor, 
who  will  not  be  conscious  of  what  you  do  for 
them,  and  will  give  you  no  thanks;  do  not  har- 
bour a  single  ambition,  though  you  may  have  a 
right  to  all:  the  hidden  joy  that  will  result  is 
worth  all  that  glory  can  bring  you." 

But  Pierre,  always  extremely  polite,  and 
touched  to  a  certain  extent  by  this  mark  of  affec- 
tion, did  not  respond  with  the  same  openness  of 
heart.  He  eluded  the  professor's  questions,  and 
made  vague  promises:  but  his  thoughts  and  in- 
tentions remained  unchanged.  He  continued  to 
be  at  the  same  time  both  reserved  and  friendly, 
undeniably  clever  and  insupportably  vain,  and 
often  melancholy  for  no  cause,  or  for  one  which 
he  kept  secret  in  his  own  heart. 

And  yet  no  one  could  have  been  more  welcome 
everywhere,  more  liked  by  his  companions  and 
tutors,  more  cherished  by  his  own  family.  The 
first  vehicle  to  draw  up  in  front  of  the  college 
gates  every  half-holiday,  before  even  the  hour  of 
freedom  had  struck,  was  Jacques'  cart,  harnessed 
to  la  Huasse  or  Roussette.  The  mother  never 
failed  when  she  came  to  market,  nor  the  father 
when  he  attended  the  fairs,  to  leave  their  business 
in  order  to  see  and  embrace  their  boy.  During  the 
summer  months,  Monsieur  Laubriet,  according  to 


58  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

promise,  sent  for  him  sometimes  into  the  parlour; 
this  was  a  great  event  in  Pierre's  life.  He  had  al- 
ways stood  somewhat  in  awe  of  Monsieur  Lau- 
briet,  and  Madeleine  put  him  completely  out  of 
countenance.  To  him  she  appeared  like  a  god- 
dess, and  he  could  not  understand  how  Ponthual, 
who  was  refined  neither  in  thought  nor  language, 
found  grace  in  the  sight  of  a  being  so  far  superior 
to  all  the  rest  of  humanity.  As  soon  as  he  was 
back  in  the  school-yard  he  began  to  recall  all  the 
clumsy  and  impolite  things  he  had  said  or  done, 
blushing,  and  for  long  after  unhappy,  at  the  re- 
membrance of  them,  and  even  torturing  himself 
to  the  point  of  dreaming  about  them  at  night. 

Monsieur  Laubriet's  visits  necessarily  became 
less  frequent  after  his  nephew  had  left  college. 
The  last  he  paid  was  during  the  mid-day  recreation 
hour,  toward  the  end  of  November.  Jules  de 
Ponthual  had  then  been  gone  more  than  a  year. 
Pierre  was  beginning  to  study  philosophy.  He 
had  not  seen  anything  of  Monsieur  Laubriet  dur- 
ing the  vacation,  as  the  latter  had  only  returned  to 
Landehue  in  October,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Paris 
through  Beaupre"au,  when  he  suddenly  thought  of 
his  godson. 

Just  as  Monsieur  Laubriet,  with  his  wife  and 
daughters,  opened  the  door  of  the  vestibule  and 
came  on  to  the  terrace  Pierre  was  playing  at  ball 
at  the  further  end  of  the  outer  court.  He  was 
playing  with  all  the  vigour  and  energy  that  he 
loved  to  employ  at  certain  times,  covered  with 
dust,  bareheaded,  his  forehead  bathed  in  sweat. 
The  late  autumnal  sun  shone  palely  down  from 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  59 

between  the  clouds,  and  a  few  chaffinches,  anxious 
to  warm  themselves  in  its  declining  rays,  perched 
themselves,  in  spite  of  the  noise,  on  the  topmost 
branches  of  the  limes,  where  caterpillars  had  al- 
ready replaced  the  fallen  leaves  with  their  cocoons. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  parasols  of  the  ladies  Lau- 
briet  appeared  above  the  low  terrace  wall. 

"Noellet!"  called  twenty  voices  all  at  once. 
"Noellet! — you  are  wanted  in  the  parlour." 

Pierre  came  to  a  dead  standstill.  Recognizing 
the  party  from  Landehue,  he  was  for  a  moment 
so  overcome  with  confusion  that  he  longed  to  run 
and  hide  himself.  Another  moment,  and  his  mind 
was  made  up;  he  retied  his  cravat,  brushed  the 
dust  off  his  coat,  pushed  back  the  long  hair  that 
was  clinging  to  his  forehead,  and  ran  toward  the 
stairs. 

Was  it  a  sense  of  freedom  due  to  Ponthual  be- 
ing no  longer  there,  or  the  self-assurance  that  had 
come  with  years?  Was  it  the  sudden  courage  that 
comes  to  the  timid  when  they  find  themselves 
caught  in  a  trap?  He  clasped  Monsieur  Laubriet's 
hand,  and  said  what  he  had  never  been  known  to 
say  before,  and  that  without  stammering: 

"Good-day,  godfather." 

Monsieur  Laubriet  appeared  delighted.  He 
gazed  with  surprise  and  admiration  at  the  young 
collegian  as  if  he  had  never  seen  him  before  and 
replied : 

"Well,  to  think  this  is  Pierre!  It's  an  age 
since  I  saw  you  last,  godson." 

"Not  since  Easter." 

"And  you  are  now  half-way  toward  being  a 


60  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

bachelor  of  arts,  and  already  an  accomplished 
philosopher.  In  a  few  months'  time  your  studies 
will  be  completed,  and  then  the  other  life,  the 
more  serious  one,  will  begin  for  you." 

"In  two  hundred  and  fifty-nine  days." 

"You  have  counted  them?"  said  Madeleine, 
laughing. 

He  ventured  to  lift  his  eyes  as  far  as  the  bottom 
of  the  dress  of  this  elegant  Parisian  lady,  and 
answered: 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,  I  count  them  because  I 
am  afraid  of  them." 

"How?"  she  asked.  "Are  you  afraid  of  the 
future?" 

"I  understand  exactly  what  he  means,"  broke 
in  Marthe,  "the  seminary  with  its  grating,  its  bell, 
its  discipline — above  all,  the  discipline — would 
drive  me  out  of  my  mind  with  terror!" 

"Marthe!"  exclaimed  Madame  Laubriet,  who 
was  always  flurried  by  her  younger  daughter's 
impetuous  sallies.  "Pierre  can  have  no  feeling  of 
that  kind.  Am  I  not  right,  Pierre?" 

"Of  course,"  the  young  man  hastened  to  rejoin; 
"I  like  being  here,  that  is  all." 

They  continued  to  talk  as  they  walked  up  and 
down  the  terrace.  Pierre  felt  much  more  at  his 
ease  than  usual.  Monsieur  Laubriet  was  in  a  good 
temper  at  the  thought  of  returning  to  Paris.  And 
so  the  conversation  was  more  animated,  and 
lasted  longer,  than  on  former  occasions.  Made- 
leine took  no  part  in  it.  The  visits  to  the  college 
were  not  exactly  what  she  looked  upon  as  a 
pleasure,  and  so  she  contented  herself  with  walk- 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  61 

ing  behind  her  parents  and  crunching  the  gravel 
under  her  short  steps,  with  looking  at  the  things 
around  her,  listening  in  an  absent-minded  man- 
ner to  what  was  being  said,  and  with  occasionally 
exchanging  a  word  or  look  with  her  sister  which 
set  them  both  laughing.  Notwithstanding  this, 
however,  as  Pierre,  after  saying  good-by  to  the 
family,  was  going  down  the  first  steps  of  the 
flight  leading  to  the  court,  he  heard  Madeleine,  in 
her  clear,  somewhat  haughty,  voice,  say  to  her 
father: 

"He  has  really  very  much  improved." 

And  it  was  true,  for  Pierre's  features  had 
grown  refined  from  the  continual  mental  work 
which  always  leaves  its  impress  on  the  face;  they 
had  lost  some  of  their  original  harshness.  Small 
delicate  curls  of  hair  were  beginning  to  show  on 
the  cheeks  and  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth.  The 
face  had  a  look  of  energy  upon  it;  the  eyes  were 
a  little  melancholy,  the  smile  charming. 

On  returning  to  the  class-room  that  day  Pierre 
felt  that  work  was  impossible  to  him. 

With  his  elbows  on  his  desk,  his  head  between 
his  hands,  he  sat  for  long  gazing  down  at  the 
book  before  him  without  reading  a  word,  full  of 
delightful  emotion  as  he  thought  over  the  six  flat- 
tering words  which  had  fallen  from  Madeleine's 
lips. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


AND  at  La  Geniviere  also  they  were  counting  the 
days.  To-morrow  would  be  a  whole  holiday. 
How  pleasant  it  was  that  winter  night,  to  be  sit- 
ting up  beside  the  fire.  Outside  there  was  a  slight 
frost.  Within,  around  the  hearth,  on  which  a 
fagot  of  wood  covered  at  one  end  with  a  crust  of 
white  quivering  ash  which  at  moments  was  scat- 
tered by  the  winds  was  burning  slowly,  the  Noel- 
lets  were  seated  in  a  semicircle.  The  father  was 
busy  plaiting  straw  mats  ready  for  the  bread  when 
put  to  rise.  He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  rolling 
a  twisted  fringe  of  straw  which  was  to  form  the 
foundation,  and  tied  the  rings  of  this  spiral  to  one 
another  with  a  green  thong  of  some  kind.  Was  it 
rush,  or  reed,  or  willow?  None  of  these,  but  a 
bramble  stem  cut  into  four.  It  was  Jacques  who 
had  been  to  gather  the  long  branches  from  the 
hedges,  and  now  they  lay  on  the  ground  behind 
his  chair,  twining  round  one  another,  and  looking 
like  snakes.  He  took  them  up  one  by  one,  split 
them  with  his  knife,  and  handed  them  to  his 
father.  Both  were  absorbed  hi  their  work,  which 
was  ill  suited  to  their  hard,  stiff  fingers. 

Beside  them,  all  bending  forward  toward  the 
fire,  were  the  four  women  with  their  white  caps, 
which  had  little  to  distinguish  them  one  from 
another — four  white-capped  women  who  hardly 

62 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  63 

spoke  at  all,  and  who  worked  on  as  steadily  as 
they  could.  First  there  was  the  mother,  who 
had  grown  rather  thin  and  shrivelled;  next  to 
her  the  eldest  girl,  Marie,  darker,  taller,  and  se- 
verer of  countenance;  then  Antoinette,  fair  and 
rosy,  wide  awake  and  alert;  and  last  of  all,  seated 
at  the  farther  corner  of  the  hearth,  Me"lie  Rain- 
ette,  who  had  come  to  spend  the  evening  at  La 
Geniviere.  For  some  time  she  had  been  a  fre- 
quent visitor.  Had  she  changed,  then?  Had  she 
grown  fast  and  pleasure-loving,  like  so  many  girls 
who  spend  their  time  going  from  one  farm  to  an- 
other, gossiping,  dancing,  and  flirting?  Hardly, 
for  look  at  them  all  as  they  sat  there.  Each  held 
a  ball  of  thread  on  her  lap,  and  a  fine  steel  crochet 
hook  in  one  hand,  while  the  other  held  a  flat, 
white,  open-work  rose,  which  grew  in  size  more  or 
less  quickly  according  to  the  age  and  skill  of  the 
worker.  Melie  had  the  cleverest  fingers,  of  course. 
She  had  taught  the  others  the  design,  and  how  to 
work  it.  The  thin  pricked  fingers  of  her  wrinkled 
workwoman's  hand  twisted  the  thread  with  a 
quick,  sure  movement.  Antoinette  and  Marie 
got  along  as  fast  as  they  were  able,  but  it  was  evi- 
dent they  were  not  accustomed  to  that  kind  of 
work.  The  farmers'  wives  and  daughters  of  Ven- 
ded do  not  make  lace  crochet  work.  Why,  and  for 
whom,  therefore,  were  all  these  women  working? 
They  hardly  allowed  themselves  a  moment  even 
for  speech.  Only  now  and  again  they  lifted  their 
eyes  and  exchanged  a  glance,  and  one  could  see, 
as  they  bent  their  heads  again,  that  they  had  a 
thought  in  common;  their  smiles  were  of  the  kind 


64  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

that  rise  from  deeper  thoughts  and  linger  a  while 
upon  the  lips,  like  a  flower  that  has  its  roots  be- 
neath the  water.  The  truth  was  that  they  had 
all  the  same  secret,  and  were  all  preparing  the 
same  surprise.  Would  you  believe  that  there 
were  already  fifty  roses  in  the  cupboard?  Possibly 
five  hundred  might  be  wanted.  But  before  an- 
other two  years  were  over  everything  would  be 
finished,  sewn,  and  ready  to  be  delivered.  What 
a  beautiful  alb  it  would  be!  Soft  and  white  as 
snow.  Would  he  be  pleased  when  he  received  it 
from  their  hands?  They  themselves  would,  in- 
deed, be  happy  when  the  day  should  come  to  pre- 
sent it  to  him,  and  they  should  see  him  mount  the 
steps  of  the  altar  hi  his  deacon's  robe,  clad  in  their 
alb  of  white  roses.  And  who  should  this  be  but 
Pierre,  the  eldest  son  of  La  Geniviere.  So  hand- 
some, so  clever.  Ail  the  hopes  of  the  family  cen- 
tred in  him.  Eyes  grew  misty  with  the  very 
thought  even  of  what  was  coming.  Dear  child! 
how  fondly  he  was  loved,  and  how  carefully  his 
place  was  kept  for  him.  That  evening  there  were 
more  than  the  usual  number  of  smiles  and  looks  of 
intelligence  between  the  women,  for  to-morrow 
he  would  be  with  them.  They  had  been  living  on 
the  thought  of  seeing  him  again  for  the  last  month, 
and  anticipated  joy,  as  we  know,  is  at  least  as 
good  as  the  joy  when  it  comes.  Laugh,  then,  An- 
toinette, and  you,  Jacques,  and  you,  Marie;  laugh, 
aged  mother — you  who  shared  your  youth  with 
your  beautiful  children,  and  lost  it  hi  theirs.  Be 
proud! — to-morrow  you  will  have  your  son  Pierre 
with  you  for  a  whole  day,  as  in  the  time  gone  by. 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  65 

The  father,  also,  as  he  sat  twisting  his  straw, 
was  thinking  over  all  these  things.  And  now  he 
stretched  his  hand  over  Jacques'  knees  to  where 
his  wife  was  sitting,  and  took  up  the  rose  she  was 
finishing.  He  weighed  the  work,  delicate  as  a 
spider's  web,  in  his  heavy  hand,  and  even  tried 
to  pass  a  finger  through  the  larger  holes  in  it,  but, 
finding  this  impossible,  he  gave  an  admiring 
shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

"It's  fine  enough,  at  any  rate!"  he  said. 

A  chorus  of  pleased  murmurs  from  under  the 
white  caps  greeted  his  remarks,  but  neither  of  the 
women  left  off  working,  and  the  wonderful  alb 
continued  to  grow  in  size  amid  the  dreamful 
silence  of  the  evening  hours. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THEY  had  had  good  reason  for  their  rejoicing. 
Pierre  proved  himself  the  gayest  and  pleasantest 
of  companions  from  the  early  morning  hour  when 
he  arrived.  It  was  one  of  his  good  days,  there 
was  no  doubt  about  that.  His  mother  found  him, 
if  anything,  even  more  affectionate  than  usual, 
and  when  he  came  up  to  her  and  kissed  her,  for 
no  apparent  reason,  at  the  close  of  the  mid-day 
meal,  she  threw  her  arms  round  her  tall  and 
twenty-year-old  son,  saying: 

"My  Noellet,  you  are  as  much  of  a  coax  to-day 
as  when  you  were  a  child.  What  has  happened  to 
you?" 

His  two  sisters,  hi  their  Sunday  attire,  had 
accompanied  their  handsome  brother  into  the 
town,  proud  of  his  broad,  farmer-like  shoulders 
and  gentlemanly  get  up,  or  at  least  what  they 
considered  such,  for  he  was  dressed  in  his  best  long 
holiday  coat,  and  wore  a  silver  watch  chain,  left 
him  by  an  old  uncle  at  Montrevault.  What  a  run- 
ning from  door  to  door!  What  a  clacking  of 
wooden  shoes  over  the  frozen  ground!  What  a 
shaking  of  hands  and  greetings!  What  a  chatter- 
ing of  tongues  on  every  side ! 

It  was  a  most  enjoyable  morning.  It  was  a  pity 
that  during  the  afternoon  the  snow  began  to  fall 
— at  first  only  in  a  few  scattered  flakes,  which 

66 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  67 

seemed  to  hesitate  before  choosing  on  what  spot 
of  earth  to  alight,  then  in  heavier  and  more  hur- 
ried masses,  which  were  hurled  together,  and 
again  scattered  in  white  sheaves  by  the  wind,  that 
blew  a  perfect  hurricane,  one  hardly  knew  from 
which  quarter,  and  lashed  against  the  trees  and 
banks  and  roofs,  where  it  silently  collected  into 
heaps.  And  so  for  many  hours  the  snow  continued 
to  fall.  Evening  came  on,  and  all  the  family  were 
again  indoors.  Marie  had  taken  off  her  Sunday 
clothes,  and  could  be  heard  at  work  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room,  where  she  was  folding  up  the  linen. 
Pierre  was  playing  cards  with  Antoinette  at  the 
corner  of  the  cherry-wood  table.  His  cheerfulness 
had  left  him,  and  Antoinette  could  see  that  he 
took  no  pleasure  in  the  game.  As  she  was  only 
fifteen,  her  hours  did  not  number  any  gloomy 
ones  among  them,  and  he  roused  himself  now  and 
then  to  respond  as  gayly  as  possible  to  his  sister's 
talk,  but  it  was  evidently  an  effort,  and  he  soon 
relapsed  into  gloomy  silence.  Antoinette,  at  first 
only  surprised  at  her  brother,  gradually  became 
concerned,  not  understanding  how  any  one  could 
feel  dull  when  with  her,  even  during  a  snow-storm. 
She  rose  as  they  finished  the  game,  and  taking  her 
brother's  hand  gently  between  her  own,  and  look- 
ing into  his  eyes  with  her  honest  ones: 

"You  are  in  trouble  about  something,"  she  said. 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  little  sister?  What 
have  I  done  the  whole  morning  but  laugh  with 
you?" 

"Then  why  are  you  so  sad  now?" 

"It  is  such  shocking  weather." 


68  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"You  know  well  enough  it  is  not  that,  Pierre." 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  white  fore- 
head. "You  foolish  little  dear,"  he  said.  "One 
can  hide  nothing  from  you.  I  am  thinking  of 
what  is  going  to  happen  at  the  end  of  this  year. 
Suppose  I  did  not  get  my  bachelor's  degree?" 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,  you  are  sure  to  get  it. 
And  what  is  the  next  great  trouble,  Monsieur 
1'Abbe"?" 

"Don't  call  me  that,  Antoinette;  it  is  absurd." 

"And  why?" 

"Simply  because  I  am  not  an  abbe",  and  that  I 
consider  it  ridiculous  to  give  people  titles  that  are 
not  theirs." 

She  unclasped  her  arms,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  little  pout  on  her  face,  and  in  the  comer  of 
her  eye  there  was  something  very  like  a  tear, 
which  she  with  difficulty  kept  from  falling. 

"You  are  not  kind  and  nice  this  evening." 

At  that  moment  Jacques'  head  appeared  at  the 
window. 

"La  Roussette  is  harnessed,  Pierre,"  he  called 
from  outside,  in  a  musical  voice  that  set  the  win- 
dow-pane quivering. 

An  instant  after  the  father  was  heard  calling 
out  to  Jacques  to  go  and  take  off  his  things. 

"I  am  going  to  drive,"  he  added;  "the  roads 
are  too  bad  for  you." 

At  these  words,  which  were  the  signal  for  de- 
parture, Pierre's  mother  and  sisters  quickly  gath- 
ered round  him  to  say  good-by. 

" Bon  soir,  my  Noellet.  Au  revoir.  You  will  be 
sure  to  write  to  us."  They  kissed  him  one  after 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  69 

the  other,  and  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that 
seemed  to  long  to  fix  his  image  upon  them  ere 
they  drew  them  away.  He,  on  his  side,  quickly 
disengaged  himself  from  them,  and  went  toward 
the  door;  but  before  crossing  the  threshold  he 
turned,  and  going  up  to  his  mother,  took  her 
again  in  his  arms,  holding  her  in  so  close  an  em- 
brace that  he  frightened  her.  She  followed  him 
out  with  anxious  eyes.  The  girls  walked  beside 
the  cart  for  a  few  yards,  then  went  back  to  the 
house,  while  the  two  men  continued  their  way  to 
Beaupre"au. 

The  snow  had  ceased  to  fall,  but  it  lay  on  all 
around — on  the  road  that  stretched  thin  and 
white  before  them,  on  the  furrows,  the  grass 
meadows,  the  glebe  pastures — looking  all  alike 
under  their  spotless  covering;  it  climbed  the 
slopes,  it  rose  in  dome-like  heaps  on  the  tops  of 
the  gates,  and  on  the  bramble  leaves,  of  which  it 
took  the  form;  wherever  the  eye  turned  it  lost 
itself  in  the  thick,  downy  whiteness.  The  ground 
shone  as  if  irradiated  by  some  half  melancholy 
light,  and  one  might  have  thought  that  the  earth 
was  the  luminary  of  the  sky — a  sky  of  pearly 
gray,  of  nearly  the  same  soft  hue  all  over,  but 
encircled,  by  a  livid  rim  above  the  horizon  where 
the  sun  was  setting.  The  trees  stood  out  against 
it  like  pencil  strokes  on  a  dull  background.  The 
little  birds,  their  heads  under  their  wing,  were 
asleep  in  flocks  on  the  outer  branches  of  the  trees; 
from  afar  they  could  be  seen  like  black  dots  scat- 
tered round  the  trunks  of  the  young  elms.  Not 
one  could  be  seen  flying,  not  one  heard  singing; 


70  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

only  a  few  crows  hovered  somewhere  over  their 
timid  prey.  There  was  no  other  sign  of  life  about 
the  fields  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  Even  the 
sound  of  the  wheels  and  of  the  horse's  hoofs  was 
deadened  by  the  thick  carpet  beneath.  The  air 
itself  seemed  dead,  and  could  be  scarcely  felt  upon 
the  face.  It  was  hardly  even  cold. 

La  Roussette  carried  the  cart  and  the  travellers 
along  at  a  good  pace.  The  latter  spoke  but  little, 
the  father  occupied  with  holding  in  the  mare,  the 
son  sitting  forward  plunged  in  thought,  with  an 
absent  look  in  the  eyes.  As  they  were  climbing 
one  of  the  hills,  however,  Julien,  leaning  forward 
and  lifting  up  the  old  coat  thrown  over  his  knees, 
said: 

"Are  you  cold,  little  one?" 

"No,  father." 

"  You  look  so  pale.  Pull  the  cover  over  you.  I 
am  warm  enough  without  it." 

And  they  fell  again  into  silence,  while  La  Rous- 
sette still  trotted  along  at  full  speed  on  her  slen- 
der legs,  which  awoke  no  echo  as  she  covered  the 
ground. 

It  was  no  cold  that  drove  the  colour  from  Pierre's 
face,  but  an  emotion  which  grew  every  moment 
more  unbearable  as  they  drew  nearer  the  town. 
And  now  they  had  reached  the  first  outlying 
houses.  Looking  out  inquisitively  from  the  win- 
dow there  could  be  seen  the  heads  of  children,  to 
whom  the  snow  and  the  passers-by  were  a  source 
of  much  amusement,  and  of  worthy  people  who 
congratulated  themselves  on  being  within  the 
shelter  of  their  walls.  Pierre  Noellet  nodded  to 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  71 

no  one.  The  cart  drew  up  in  front  of  the  college 
gate — the  father  got  down  to  stretch  and  warm 
himself  and  walked  half-way  across  the  entrance 
court.  He  did  this  every  time  he  came.  Then 
standing  still  in  the  middle  of  the  swept  path, 
which  made  great  notches  in  the  snow: 

"Well,  my  boy,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  wide 
open  hand  to  his  son,  "I  shall  not  bring  you  back 
here  many  more  times.  It  will  be  a  long  drive  to 
your  new  house  next  year." 

He  referred  to  the  large  seminary  at  Angers. 
But  Pierre,  who  had  not  let  go  his  hand,  drew  his 
father  toward  him,  and  letting  his  head  fall  on 
his  shoulder,  said  in  a  low,  stifled  voice : 

"I  am  not  going  to  be  a  priest." 

Then  he  rushed  along  the  path,  and  disap- 
peared within  the  college  gates. 

The  farmer  was  struck  motionless  by  the  blow. 
His  whole  body  trembled.  Could  it  be  possible? 
Had  he  heard  his  son  rightly?  "I  am  not  going 
to  be  a  priest."  Surely  Pierre  could  not  have 
uttered  these  words.  But  where  was  he?  Gone, 
fled  like  a  culprit.  And  then  his  silence  while  they 
were  driving,  and  still  more  his  pallour.  "  Are  you 
cold,  little  one?"  And  the  stifled  voice  just  now. 
He  was  ashamed  of  himself — it  was  true,  then. 

"Oh,  Pierre!    Pierre!" 

Still  he  stood  there  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  door  through  which  Pierre  had  disap- 
peared, the  life-long  peace  of  soul  of  this  fifty-year 
old  peasant  so  troubled  that  he  was  unconscious 
of  the  half-dozen  students  who  had  come  up  to 
him,  and  were  looking  at  him  with  curiosity. 


72  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

The  snow  began  to  fall  again,  and  to  sprinkle 
his  rough  coat.  A  professor  who  was  crossing  the 
court  paused  to  speak  to  him. 

"  Are  you  waiting  for  some  one,  Maitre  Noellet?" 

The  sight  of  this  priest's  cassock  produced  such 
a  strange  impression  upon  Julien  Noellet  that  the 
sobs  rose  in  his  throat,  and  he  was  unable  to  re- 
ply, and  he  turned  away,  hardly  knowing  what 
he  was  doing,  following  the  instinct  of  pride  that 
drives  the  wild  animal  to  hide  itself  when  wounded. 

"Hue!  Hue!"  he  called  to  La  Roussette,  al- 
most before  he  had  mounted  into  the  cart;  and 
La  Roussette  darted  off  like  a  flash  of  lightning, 
while  those  who  knew  the  fanner  of  La  Geniviere 
were  astonished  to  see  him  put  the  mare  to  a  gal- 
lop up  the  rough,  steep  road.  He  continued  to 
drive  at  the  same  break-neck  pace  round  corners, 
uphill  and  downhill,  not  slacking  for  a  single  mo- 
ment. Leaning  forward,  his  hat  drawn  low  over 
his  brows,  he  let  the  mare  go  her  own  way,  taking 
no  care  to  avoid  ditches,  or  the  few  vehicles  that 
had  got  stuck  along  the  road.  The  reins  hung 
loose.  The  snow  whirled  round  him,  but  he  did 
not  even  trouble  to  cover  himself  with  the  cloak 
that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  cart.  "I  am  not  go- 
ing to  be  a  priest,  I  am  not  going  to  be  a  priest!" 
He  could  think  of  nothing  but  that;  he  heard 
nothing  but  that.  So  many  ruined  hopes  lay  in 
those  few  words!  So  many  recollections  came 
back  to  him  of  Pierre  as  a  child,  things  he  had  not 
forgotten  which  had  augured  well  for  the  little 
son!  And  then  the  struggle,  the  hesitation,  before 
allowing  him  to  learn  Latin,  and  the  heavy  sums 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  73 

of  money  that  had  gone  for  his  keeping  alone! 
All  that  to  be  wasted !  And  then  the  shame  of  it, 
for  all  the  country  knew  for  what  profession  he 
had  been  training.  Poor  Noellet! — he  had  never 
carried  such  a  heavy  weight  at  his  heart  before. 

And  La  Roussette  was  still  galloping,  galloping 
over  the  thick  snow. 

Not  till  he  had  driven  into  the  courtyard  of  the 
farm  did  he  draw  rein,  and  there  he  left  his  sweat- 
ing animal  with  the  icy  snow  falling  upon  it,  and 
abruptly  opening  the  door  of  the  room  where  in 
quiet  and  shelter  the  family  were  awaiting  him  in 
the  warm  nest  that  he  loved  so  well,  he  walked  to 
his  accustomed  place  at  the  corner  of  the  hearth, 
and  for  more  than  an  hour  sat  there  and  wept 
without  speaking. 

The  children,  in  pained  astonishment,  retired 
one  by  one,  their  hearts  ready  to  break  at  seeing 
their  father  in  tears. 

His  wife  remained  with  him,  and  endeavoured 
timidly  to  find  out  the  cause  of  his  trouble,  but 
he  only  answered  her  with  a  look  which  made  her 
understand  that  he  wished  to  keep  it  to  himself. 
She  trusted  that  it  was  only  a  passing  distress, 
and  that  a  night  would  suffice  to  heal  a  trouble 
that  had  come  upon  him  so  suddenly.  But  the 
blow  that  had  fallen  on  him  had  struck  to  the 
very  roots  of  his  happiness,  and  he  continued  to 
grieve.  It  had  always  been  his  custom,  afler  din- 
ner or  supper,  to  remain  seated  at  the  table,  look- 
ing round  on  his  children,  full  of  a  quiet  and  ten- 
der joy  as  his  eyes  fell  on  them  one  by  one.  But 
now,  the  meal  was  hardly  finished,  before  he  rose 


74  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

under  the  pretext  that  he  was  busy  in  the  barn  or 
in  the  cow-sheds,  and  he  would  escape  from  the 
house,  while  his  wife,  in  her  ignorance,  would  say 
sometimes: 

"If  only  Pierre  were  here,  he  would  soon  cheer 
him  up." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


AFTER  some  time  had  elapsed,  however,  Julien 
Noellet,  unable  to  bear  his  secret  unhappiness 
any  longer,  and  at  the  same  time  anxious  to  take 
the  advice  of  some  wise  person  before  he  with- 
drew his  son  from  the  college — for  of  what  use  was 
it  to  keep  him  there  now?  It  would  be  better 
surely  to  let  him  take  his  place  again  behind  the 
plough — determined  to  go  and  consult  with  Abbe 
Heurtebise. 

One  evening  in  spring,  after  dark — for  he  was 
afraid  of  being  recognized — he  made  his  way  to 
the  presbytery.  For  some  little  while  past  he  had 
been  growing  more  timid  of  his  fellow-creatures, 
imagining  that  he  read  on  their  faces  thoughts  of 
which  they  had  no  suspicion.  So  instead  of  tak- 
ing the  high  road,  he  went  along  the  footpath  that 
skirted  M61ie  Rainette's  garden,  walking  with  his 
slow  measured  tread,  that  was  not  unlike  that  of 
his  oxen.  Sweet  scents  arose  from  the  farther 
side  of  the  brook;  the  buds,  beginning  to  swell, 
looked  like  small  dark  fruits  on  the  branches. 
There  was  a  shy  beginning  of  spring.  Noellet  had 
no  senses  for  it,  but  Me*lie  Rainette,  being  younger, 
heard  within  her  heart  the  song  of  this  renewal  of 
life.  She  had  been  busy  all  day  washing,  and  was 
at  this  moment  gathering  up  the  linen  spread  out 
upon  the  hedge — shirts,  table-napkins,  caps — 

75 


76  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

which  she  piled  up  on  her  left  arm  till  they  foamed 
over  like  a  white  nosegay.  She  heard  the  farmer 
passing  along  the  path  beneath,  and,  recognizing 
his  step,  she  paused  in  her  work,  and  called  out 
over  the  hedge : 

"Good-evening.  Where  are  you  going  at  this 
time  of  day,  Maitre  Noellet?" 

In  spite  of  the  growing  darkness  he  recognized 
her,  partly  by  her  refined  voice  and  partly  by  the 
outline  of  her  face  and  figure,  which  he  could  still 
discern  in  the  lingering  light. 

"One  has  business  at  all  hours,"  he  answered 
sententiously.  "How  are  you,  Melie?" 

"As  happy  as  a  chaffinch,"  she  replied,  "on  ac- 
count of  the  fine  weather  I  have  had  for  my  wash- 
ing. There  are  days  when  I  feel  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  live." 

"So  much  the  better  for  you,  but  everybody 
does  not  feel  as  you  do." 

The  farmer  hurried  forward,  and  was  soon  at 
Villeneuve. 

The  abbe*  took  him  into  his  field,  and  for  an 
hour  they  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
beehives  which  were  so  dear  to  that  austere  man. 
Neither  of  the  two  was  a  great  talker.  Their  con- 
versation consisted  in  the  interchange  of  a  few 
serious  words,  broken  by  long  pauses  which  served 
as  commentaries  on  what  had  already  been  said, 
or  as  preparation  for  the  next  sentence.  Never- 
theless they  had  no  difficulty  in  understanding 
one  another.  Each  knew  the  other's  thoughts, 
for  they  were  both  men  of  Vendee,  more  given  to 
reflection  than  to  speech. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  77 

"It  is  a  serious  matter,"  was  the  substance 
of  what  the  abbe  said.  "I  feared  for  your  boy 
Pierre  when  he  was  only  a  child  on  account  of  his 
pride — later  on  I  even  asked  myself — but  we  shall 
see.  Believe  me,  it  is  better  not  to  take  him  from 
college.  Leave  him  alone  for  six  months;  six 
months  may  make  a  great  difference  in  a  man. 
I  still  have  some  hopes.  At  any  rate,  remember 
that  he  can  never  again  be  put  to  the  plough. 
Those  who  have  lived  among  books,  my  poor 
Noellet,  are  never  content  to  return  to  farm  life." 

A  few  more  words  and  the  interview  came  to 
an  end. 

"Your  two  sons  were  born  the  same  year,  were 
they  not?"  asked  the  abbe". 

"Yes." 

"And  they  drew  bad  numbers  for  the  con- 
scription?" 

"Yes." 

"When  are  they  going  before  the  board  of 
examination?" 

"The  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Pierre  will  be  chosen  for  the  service." 

"As  well,  perhaps,  that  it  should  be  so." 

"And  if  he  does  not  go  to  the  seminary,  it  will 
exempt  Jacques." 

"That  will  be  some  slight  consolation  to  me, 
Monsieur  le  Cure"." 

And  so,  with  the  darkness  of  night  surrounding 
them,  they  parted. 

Unfortunately,  things  did  not  turn  out  as  the 
master  of  La  Geniviere  had  hoped.  There  was  no 
doubt  as  to  Pierre's  robustness,  but  the  close  work 


78  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

during  his  five  years  of  college  life,  and  the  strain 
it  had  entailed  on  his  eyes — accustomed  as  a  peas- 
ant to  the  reposeful  contemplation  of  the  clear 
country  landscape — had  weakened  his  sight.  He 
was  invalided  by  the  board  of  examination  then 
sitting  at  Beaupre"au,  while  Jacques,  though  a 
puny  youth,  was  declared  fit  for  service. 

It  was  a  terrible  blow  for  his  family.  The  farm 
would  now  lose  both  its  sons  that  autumn.  As 
far  as  Pierre  was  concerned,  this  had  been  an  ac- 
cepted fact  for  long  past;  but  here  was  Jacques 
going  to  be  a  soldier,  he  who  was  so  unfitted  to 
become  one ;  he  who  had  greater  need  than  others 
of  care  and  tenderness  and  of  liberty,  if  he  were 
to  live.  Poor  Mere  Noellet  wept  often  at  the 
thought  of  what  was  coming;  there  seemed  noth- 
ing for  her  but  trouble.  A  feeling  of  dull  irrita- 
tion toward  Pierre  had  taken  possession  of  the 
farmer,  who  considered  that  he  was  responsible 
for  his  younger  brother  being  forced  to  leave 
them.  He  went  through  the  same  argument  with 
himself  over  and  over  again.  "It  is  his  fault;  if 
he  had  remained  at  La  Geniviere  he  would  have 
preserved  his  fine  Noellet  eyesight,  and  would 
now  have  been  able  to  exempt  Jacques  from 
service.  It  is  he  who  is  sending  Jacques  away." 
He  kept  his  anger  to  himself,  however,  and  gave 
no  outward  sign  of  it.  On  the  rare  occasions 
when  Pierre  was  at  home,  there  was  a  certain  stiff- 
ness between  father  and  son,  but  they  came  to  no 
explanation  with  each  other.  "Leave  him  alone 
for  six  months,"  had  been  Abbe  Heurtebise's  ad- 
vice. And  so  the  farmer  waited  till  the  end  of  the 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  79 

year,  with  the  same  peasant-bred  patience  with 
which  he  waited  for  the  right  hour  for  hay-mak- 
ing, for  gathering  the  harvest,  or  for  the  vintage. 
During  the  course  of  the  summer,  as  he  knew, 
Pierre  would  either  become  more  confirmed  in  his 
resolution,  or  it  would  pass  away  like  a  dream. 
He  would  keep  silence,  therefore,  till  it  was  over, 
while,  mingled  with  his  anger  and  anxiety,  there 
was  still  a  lingering  hope.  "Supposing  his  old 
idea  returns,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "I  should 
still  have  to  part  with  both  of  them,  but  it  would 
no  longer  be  the  same  trouble  to  me."  He  was 
accustomed  to  long  periods  of  hopeful  expec- 
tancy. Moreover,  when  he  talked  with  his  wife 
about  Jacques  they  both  cried;  when  they  talked 
of  Pierre  her  face  would  brighten,  and  she  would 
smile  with  the  same  perfect  confidence  as  hereto- 
fore, no  doubt  having  entered  to  disturb  her 
mind,  and  even  he  would  feel  some  slight  softening 
of  the  heart  as  he  recalled  the  many  storms,  the 
hail,  and  the  drought,  the  ravages  of  which  to  his 
fields  had  been  repaired  the  following  season. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


IT  was  a  month  since  Pierre  had  left  the  college. 
The  rain  had  fallen  during  the  night,  and  the 
earth,  which  had  drunk  thirstily  of  it  after  the 
long  dry  spell  of  weather,  lay  soft  and  swollen 
with  moisture.  On  all  sides  around  Fief-Sauvin 
the  early  ploughing  had  begun.  Across  the  hills 
came,  sung  or  whistled,  the  long-drawn-out  cry  of 
the  ploughman  to  his  beasts,  "Ohe,  les  vakts, 
ohe!"  It  was  almost  noon.  Jacques  and  his 
father  were  returning  to  the  farm.  Before  them, 
walking  in  procession,  La  Huasse  at  their  head, 
were  the  cart-horses,  followed  by  six  large  oxen 
with  silky  coats  that  rose  in  folds  across  their 
shoulders  with  each  step  they  took.  They  were 
dragging  a  plough  after  them,  its  teeth,  still  clogged 
with  earth,  turned  upward,  as  it  jolted  over  the 
grassy  knolls  along  the  road. 

As  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  the  farmer 
asked: 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is?  It  is  not  a  usual 
thing  for  him  to  go  off  with  La  Roussette  on 
ploughing  day  without  my  leave." 

He  spoke  with  anger  and  frowning  brows,  for 
it  was  the  first  time  that  a  son  of  La  Geniviere 
had  taken  such  a  liberty. 

Jacques  turned  his  head  toward  the  hedge  that 

80 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  81 

his  father  might  not  notice  his  confusion,  and 
answered  indifferently: 

"I  am  sure  I  do  not  know." 

But  he  was  not  speaking  the  truth. 

On  rising  that  morning  at  dawn,  he  had  found 
Pierre  in  the  stable  currying  La  Roussette,  who 
was  standing  still  with  her  head  buried  in  a 
troughful  of  oats.  The  bridle  with  its  red  rosettes 
was  hanging  on  a  post  near. 

"Where  are  you  off  to?"  asked  Jacques. 

' '  To  the  forest.  They  are  hunting  there  to-day." 

"To  the  forest!  And  you  are  going  to  take  La 
Roussette?  Father  will  not  be  pleased,  for  he 
wants  her  to-day  for  the  ploughing  of  the  large 
Musse." 

"Harness  La  Huasse  in  her  place,  Jacques," 
replied  Pierre,  tapping  his  brother  on  the  shoulder. 
"I  shall  not  be  here  long,  and  I  want  to  satisfy 
a  whim  of  mine  that  has  been  tempting  me  for 
ten  years." 

And  before  he  had  finished  speaking,  he  had 
thrown  a  cloth  in  place  of  a  saddle  over  the  back 
of  La  Roussette,  put  on  the  girth,  mounted,  and 
without  stirrup,  and  only  a  piece  of  bread  in  his 
pocket,  started  off  for  the  forest  of  Leppo. 

There  was  nothing  extraordinary  in  this,  there 
in  bold  Vende*e,  with  its  sense  of  equality.  Those 
who  have  hunted  in  the  forests  of  Vezins,  of 
Leppo,  or  of  La  Foucaudiere,  know  how  often,  as 
the  hunt  begins,  either  at  the  cross-roads  or  on  the 
heaths,  may  be  met  many  country  youths  in 
blouses  or  shirt  jackets  mounted  on  farm  horses, 
who  cut  across  in  front  of  carriages  and  of  pink- 


82  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

coated  huntsmen.  The  grandfathers  of  these 
farmers'  sons  were  the  companions  of  nobles  in 
the  time  of  the  "Great  War."  They  rode  with 
only  an  old  bridle,  or  even  a  piece  of  rope,  side  by 
side  with  officers  wearing  their  white  scarves,  and 
they  shared  with  these  the  same  life,  and  often 
died  the  same  death.  From  such  intimacy  spring 
rights  and  traditions.  The  huntsmen  know  this, 
and  the  farmers'  sons  know  it  better  still.  What 
was  unusual  was  to  meet  such  a  horse  as  La 
Roussette. 

She  would  not  follow  directly  behind  the 
hounds,  but  some  hundred  yards  to  the  left,  ob- 
stinately continuing  in  this  parallel  direction,  and 
always  at  the  same  long  trot,  never  breaking  into 
a  gallop.  La  Roussette  and  her  rider  had  disap- 
peared for  an  hour,  trying  to  recover  a  lost  scent. 
They  suddenly  reappeared  in  the  middle  of  a 
clearing  just  as  the  buck,  which  had  been  started 
again,  was  running  straight  for  the  outskirts  of 
the  Leppo  forest  with  the  intention  of  making  his 
way  from  there  to  that  of  La  Foucaudiere.  Most 
of  the  huntsmen  were  soon  scattered,  their  horses 
being  foundered  or  out-distanced.  Two  only  kept 
in  sight  of  the  hounds,  the  whipper-in  Leproux, 
a  stout  man  on  a  lean  mare,  with  a  heart-shaped 
mouth  and  swollen  cheeks,  ready  to  sound  his 
horn,  and  Madeleine  Laubriet,  the  most  attractive 
and  most  inveterate  of  huntresses.  She  was  rav- 
ishing in  her  short  habit,  with  her  brown  hair 
twisted  in  a  knot  under  her  little  silk  hat,  with  her 
look  of  animation  and  her  pink  cheeks,  and  en- 
tirely given  up  to  the  delight  of  the  chase. 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  83 

And  what  greater  delight  is  there  than  galloping 
at  full  speed  with  the  wind  lashing  against  one's 
face,  and  feeling  oneself  borne  along  by  an  intelli- 
gent and  obedient  power  that  requires  only  the 
pressure  of  a  finger  to  change  its  pace  or  its 
course!  A  flood  of  sensations,  the  pride  of  mas- 
tery, the  intoxication  of  space,  a  kind  of  voluptu- 
ous pleasure  in  danger,  the  primitive  passion  of 
the  blood,  that  old  ferocity  which  ordinarily  we 
keep  in  check — overflow  our  being.  And  how  de- 
licious it  is  to  draw  the  air  into  one's  lungs!  And 
how  the  hunting  train  of  Landehue  went  sweeping 
by!  It  was  a  vision  passing  before  one's  eyes, 
a  chorus  of  voices  flying  past.  The  whole  forest 
was  alive.  Madeleine  Laubriet  royally  enjoyed 
herself.  She  was  a  huntress  by  birth.  The  old 
Leproux,  who  doted  upon  her,  sounded  many 
extra  bien  aller  for  her  sake,  and  the  sonorous 
notes  of  his  horn  were  heard  afar  through  the 
moist  woods,  awakening  terror  afresh  in  the  heart 
of  the  deer — poor  frightened  beast! — that  risked 
a  last  effort  to  save  his  life,  and  made  for  the 
open  plain. 

"  He'll  soon  be  at  his  last  gasp,  won't  he,  Le- 
proux?" she  asked,  as  she  galloped  on. 

"Before  another  twenty  minutes  are  over,  at 
the  pace  our  dogs  are  keeping  him  at,  Mademoi- 
selle. Look  at  them;  you  can  hardly  see  them 
for  the  rate  they  go." 

The  whole  pack  in  a  body  were  hunting  by 
sight,  looking  like  a  moving  patch  among  the 
furrows  and  the  stubble. 

Mademoiselle   Laubriet,   passionately  fond  as 


84  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

she  was  of  the  chase,  had  yet  not  failed  to  notice 
the  horseman  whose  mare  always  kept  at  a  cer- 
tain distance  ahead  of  hers,  never  altering  its 
pace.  She  had  even  fancied  that  he,  on  his  side, 
had  not  been  unwilling  to  look  at  her.  At  least 
she  gathered  as  much  from  a  certain  respectful 
retirement  in  his  behaviour,  for  this  strange 
horseman,  whenever  he  saw  her  turn  her  head, 
leant  forward  over  his  horse's  mane,  and  spurred 
his  horse  as  if  to  flee  from  her.  And  so,  after  a 
wild  chase  that  brought  them  to  the  first  clear- 
ings of  the  Foucaudiere,  no  longer  seeing  him 
near,  she  said  to  the  whipper-in : 

"We  seem  to  have  lost  our  companion.  Do 
you  know  who  it  was?" 

"I  recognized  the  mare,  Mademoiselle;  it  was 
La  Roussette;  but  who  was  riding  her  I  cannot 
say." 

Then  a  moment  later,  with  a  knowing  look : 
"A  capital  little  beast  that  for  drawing  a  cart." 
For  old  Leproux  the  honour  of  the  Landehue 
stables  was  almost  one  and  the  same  thing  as  his 
own. 

Nevertheless,  when  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he 
put  his  horn  to  his  lips  to  sound  the  "Hallali!"  he 
found  himself  the  second  to  arrive  on  the  spot,  for 
Pierre  Noellet  was  there  before  him,  his  coat  torn 
by  the  branches,  and  La  Roussette  was  standing 
in  her  favourite  attitude,  with  one  hind-foot  half 
lifted,  her  head  down,  and  a  general  air  about  her 
of  being  tired  out.  At  his  feet  were  the  hounds 
crowding  round  the  buck,  which,  at  the  end  of  its 
strength,  had  dragged  itself  into  the  shelter  of  a 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  85 

briar  bush.  The  poor  animal,  its  breath  exhausted 
and  its  blood  turned,  hardly  moved  even  when  he 
felt  the  fangs  of  his  pursuers  in  his  flesh;  a  faint 
bleat  alone  cried  for  pity;  the  pink  tongue  hung 
down;  the  turned-up  eyes  were  beginning  to 
grow  dim. 

Mademoiselle  Laubriet  rode  up  in  her  turn, 
looked  at  the  dying  animal  without  a  shadow  of 
emotion  disturbing  her  smile  of  triumph,  re- 
arranged her  habit,  patted  her  mare's  neck,  and 
then,  looking  at  Pierre  Noellet: 

" Bravo,  Pierre!"  she  cried.  "As  usual,  the 
first  in  the  field." 

For  the  first  time  she  addressed  him  without 
that  shade  of  haughtiness  in  her  voice  which  had 
so  deeply  wounded  Pierre.  He  was  conscious  of 
it,  and  it  gave  him  courage  to  reply: 

"Just  a  chance,  Mademoiselle;  it  is  the  first 
time  I  have  followed  the  hounds,  and  probably 
the  last." 

"Your  animal  is  perfect.  Will  you  sell  it  to  me 
now,"  she  asked,  smiling. 

"I  would  certainly,  if  it  only  depended  on  me." 

The  conversation  would  have  continued,  but 
a  voice  suddenly  called  out: 

"Well,  now,  this  is  amusing!" 

And  at  the  same  moment  there  appeared 
emerging  from  one  of  the  forest  roads,  mounted  on 
a  thoroughbred  that  was  badly  lamed,  an  athletic- 
looking  young  man  in  pink  coat,  blue  spotted 
waistcoat,  white  trousers  fastened  below  the 
knees  with  buckles,  and  top-boots;  his  silk  hat, 
perched  on  the  back  of  his  head,  was  fastened  to 


86  "THIS,  MY  SON" 

his  coat  collar  by  a  little  blue  ribbon.  He  was 
laughing  with  all  his  might,  and  nodding  his  head 
up  and  down  with  a  rapidity  that  made  his  brown 
moustache  dance,  and  disturbed  the  white  cravat, 
which  was  ornamented  with  the  traditional  stag's 
tooth  mounted  in  gold. 

"I  say,  though,  isn't  it  a  joke!  I  never  ex- 
pected to  meet  little  Noellet  at  a  hunt." 

Pierre  turned  red. 

"In  this  country,"  he  said  quickly,  "the  hunt 
is  open  to  everybody.  I,  too,  as  little  expected  to 
see  you  here,  Ponthual." 

He  made  a  point  of  addressing  him  with  the 
familiar  tutoiement,  knowing  that  it  would  not  be 
quite  to  the  taste  of  his  old  school-fellow. 

"I  thought  you  were  employed  chanting  your 
oremus,"  replied  the  other. 

"Not  yet,  cousin,"  put  in  Mademoiselle  Lau- 
briet.  "Pierre  Noellet  has  not  finished  his  holi- 
days, and  I  think  he  was  very  wise  to  come  and 
join  the  hunt  if  he  wished  to.  You  come  hi  only 
third,  my  poor  Jules,  with  a  limping  horse,  and 
that  puts  you  out." 

"What  nonsense!" 

"It's  truth,"  she  said,  drawing  herself  up.  "I 
know  you  well;  you  are  put  out  about  it." 

Half  a  dozen  pink  coats  now  came  riding  out  of 
an  adjoining  wood.  Leproux  dismounted  for  the 
quarry,  and  Noellet,  who  did  not  care  to  prolong 
the  conversation  with  Jules  de  Ponthual,  nor  to 
stay  to  see  the  cutting  up  of  the  buck,  profited  by 
the  occasion  to  take  his  departure.  He  bowed  to 
Mademoiselle  Laubriet,  turned  La  Roussette 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  87 

round,  and  went  off  down  one  of  the  green  forest 
paths. 

The  haughty  Madeleine  had  smiled  at  him; 
what  was  more,  she  had  stood  up  for  him.  He 
was  surprised  and  delighted.  "Always  first  in  the 
field!"  What  did  PonthuaPs  scornful  remarks 
matter  after  that? 

According  to  the  natural  course  followed  by  all 
human  reverie,  his  thoughts  reverted  quickly  to 
the  past,  that  Divine  source  from  which  we  begin 
to  draw  so  early.  When  he  himself  and  the  ladies 
of  Landehue  had  all  been  children,  he  had  begun 
to  feel  a  timid  admiration  for  them — Madeleine 
particularly,  with  her  queen-like  airs,  had  in- 
spired him  with  awe.  Her  least  words  had  seemed 
to  him  like  sovereign  commands.  In  those  days 
the  Laubriet  returned  to  Landehue  at  the  begin- 
ning of  April.  And  then  what  days  of  birds'-nest- 
ing  there  had  been!  What  days  spent  in  the  fields 
searching  for  primroses,  for  daffodils,  for  wild 
hyacinths,  and  for  the  little  ranunculus,  the 
colour  of  wine-lees,  in  the  melancholy  nosegays  of 
which  Madame  Laubriet  took  especial  pleasure! 
As  soon  as  Madeleine  and  Marthe  caught  sight  of 
Pierre  returning  from  one  of  his  marauding  excur- 
sions, holding  up  a  fold  of  his  smock-frock  in 
which  the  booty  lay  hid,  they  would  break  away 
from  their  nurses:  "What  have  you  got  to-day, 
Pierre — jays,  magpies?  Magpies  are  mischievous 
birds,  aren't  they?  Oh,  no,  starlings!  Oh,  what 
pretty  things!  Where  is  the  cage  we  had  last 
year?  You  ought  to  know,  Pierre?" 

He  always  did  know  where  last  year's  cage  was. 


88  ''THIS,   MY   SON" 

The  poor  birds  were  shut  up  in  it.  For  three  days 
the  little  girls  looked  after  them  with  too  great 
assiduity;  on  the  fourth  their  pensioners  began 
to  droop.  Toward  the  end  of  the  week  Pierre 
dug  a  grave  for  them  under  one  of  the  trees.  An- 
other pleasure  in  the  hay-making  time  had  been 
to  watch  the  little  pink  aprons  and  wind-blown 
hair  of  the  children  as  they  flew  in  and  out  among 
the  heaps  of  freshly  piled  grass.  Madeleine  was 
such  a  capital  runner;  even  then  she  showed  her 
taste  for  the  chase.  Had  she  not  once  harnessed 
Pierre  to  a  wheelbarrow,  in  which  she  sat  en- 
throned in  a  flowered  dress,  with  a  whip  in  her 
hand  tied  with  riband?  "I  am  Diana;  you  are 
the  horse;  there  are  the  deer,  off  now  at  a  gallop! 
Quicker,  quicker!  At  full  speed!"  And  the 
frightened  sheep  scattered  in  every  direction 
about  the  field,  leaping  over  the  hedges,  while  she 
sat  and  laughed  her  clear,  light  laugh,  like  the  song 
of  a  blackbird.  Ah,  those  times  were  far  away! 

When  the  rider  dreams,  the  horse  takes  its 
leisure.  La  Roussette  had  insensibly  dropped 
from  her  trot  into  an  easier  pace.  The  sun  was 
sinking,  and  the  shadows  of  the  bare  trees  were 
lying  here  and  there  across  the  road  as  Pierre  en- 
tered the  courtyard  of  the  farm. 

His  father  was  standing  upright  at  the  stable 
door. 

''Have  you  just  returned  from  the  hunt?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes." 

"And  since  when  are  the  horses  taken  out 
without  my  permission?" 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  89 

Pierre  tried  to  open  the  door,  but  the  fanner 
flung  it  to  with  a  blow  of  his  fist. 

"Since  when,  I  ask  you?"  he  repeated  in  a 
voice  of  thunder. 

"I  thought,"  stammered  the  young  man,  "that 
as  it  was  the  first  time " 

"Quite  so,  and  it  will  have  to  be  the  last,  my 
boy.  When  I  am  dead,  you  can  dispose  as  you 
like  of  my  property.  Until  then  I  am  master 
here;  do  you  understand?" 

Then  seizing  the  bridle  from  his  son's  hands,  he 
added: 

"Give  La  Roussette  to  me;  gentlemen  who  go 
hunting  do  not  look  after  their  horses." 

And  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  he  went  into 
the  stable,  pulling  the  beast  after  him. 

Pierre,  angry  and  humiliated,  did  not  dare  re- 
sist, nor  answer  his  father  aloud.  He  turned  on 
his  heel,  muttering,  as  if  speaking  to  himself:  "I 
see  I  am  one  too  many  here.  Have  no  fear, 
father;  you  will  have  no  occasion  to  repeat  what 
you  have  said  to  me." 


CHAPTER  X. 


ON  the  morrow  Pierre  Noellet,  who  had  spent  the 
whole  day  away  from  the  farm  with  a  friend  who 
lived  in  a  neighbouring  village,  was  returning 
home  through  Fief-Sauvin.  As  he  passed  old 
Joberie's  tavern,  which  was  situated  near  the 
church  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  he  was  surprised  to 
hear  a  considerable  noise  going  on  within.  At 
this  time  of  the  year,  when  the  early  ploughing 
and  the  late  threshing  were  going  on  simultane- 
ously— a  time  of  excessive  fatigue  for  the  labourers 
— it  was  not  unusual,  as  night  fell,  for  the  tavern 
to  be  full  of  drinkers,  mostly  farm  hands  white 
with  dust  from  the  threshing-floor.  To-day,  how- 
ever, there  was  an  exceptional  influx  of  men. 
With  the  reapers  were  weavers,  farmers,  and  shop- 
keepers, the  latter  recognizable  among  the  thin 
job-hands  from  their  pleased  and  comfortable 
appearance.  The  sudden  burst  of  sound,  the 
cheers,  the  continual  clicking  of  glasses,  drew  sev- 
eral of  the  old  people  from  their  quiet  homes  in 
the  neighbourhood  to  the  tavern  door,  and  these 
added  their  smiles  as  applause,  when  the  men  in- 
side, with  the  full  power  of  their  lungs,  reiterated 
the  cry  of,  "To  the  health  of  the  boy  Louis!" 
"To  the  2nd  Light  Infantry!" 

They   were   celebrating   the   return   of   Louis 
Fauvepre,  the  blacksmith's  son,  who  had  served 

90 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  91 

his  time,  and  was  just  back  from  Tunis,  with  a 
corporal's  stripes  on  his  sleeve.  The  father,  once 
more  in  possession  of  his  son,  had  done  nothing 
since  the  previous  evening  but  parade  him  up  and 
down  the  town,  never  tired  of  showing  him  off, 
still  less  of  gazing  at  him  himself,  while  he  spoke 
of  the  Kroumirs  as  if  he  had  seen  them  himself, 
and  caught  his  son  up  if  the  latter  varied  in  his 
recitals.  The  smithy  took  a  holiday.  Just  think 
of  having  a  son  safely  back  after  four  years  of 
misery — a  son  who,  after  the  following  day,  would 
have  no  right  ever  again  to  put  on  a  uniform! 
The  host  went  up  and  down  between  his  cellar 
and  the  room  that  was  full  to  overflowing  with 
his  guests,  joking  and  beaming  with  delight  at 
this  second  Sunday  which  the  week  had  brought 
him. 

As  to  the  hero  himself,  he  was  a  handsome, 
thin,  bronzed  young  soldier,  of  masculine  coun- 
tenance, who  was  as  little  intoxicated  by  his  ova- 
tion as  he  was  by  old  Joberie's  Nantes  muscadet. 
Leaning  upright  against  the  wall,  between  a  por- 
trait of  MacMahon  and  a  printed  notice  of  the 
penalty  incurred  by  being  seen  drunk  in  public, 
he  shook  hands  with  the  newcomers,  who  at 
every  minute  were  swelling  the  number  of  the 
drinkers,  exchanged  good-days  with  them,  touched 
glasses  with  friends  to  right  and  left,  without  paus- 
ing in  the  narrative  of  his  campaigns,  to  which  a 
crowd  of  youths,  seated  near  him,  listened  open- 
mouthed. 

"You  understand,"  he  said,  "it  was  a  ravine 
between  two  mountains,  with  a  sun  overhead  to 


92  'THIS,   MY   SON" 

melt  a  cannon,  and  not  a  drop  of  water.  There  the 
fight  began.  All  of  a  sudden,  pit,  pat,  and  two  of 
our  men  fell  beside  me,  and  the  balls  go  whistling 
round  us,  lifting  our  hair.  It  was  the  Ouled-Ayas 
shooting  from  above  at  us  from  a  plateau  of  rock, 
embattled  like  a  fort.  The  colonel  ordered  our 
squadron  to  dismount.  We  silently  turned  to  the 
left  round  the  swell  of  the  hill,  and  entered  the 
thick  of  the  wood.  Then  came  the  order  that  we 
were  to  advance  another  two  hundred  yards  or  so, 
and  then  open  fire.  Ah,  if  only  you  had  been 
there,  my  boys!  All  our  shots  told.  At  the  end 
of  another  twenty  minutes  there  was  not  a  single 
white  burnoose  to  be  seen  on  the  plateau;  nothing 
but  dead — nothing  but  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, and  two  thousand  frightened,  bleating 
sheep." 

And  all  those  present,  carried  away  by  the 
thought  of  his  victory  at  which  Fief-Sauvin  had 
figured,  cheered  loudly  at  the  defeat  of  the  Krou- 
mirs,  "Health  to  young  Louis!  To  the  2nd  Light 
Infantry!  To  the  corporal!" 

The  light  white  wine  had  begun  to  muddle 
several  of  the  heads  by  the  time  Pierre  Noellet 
reached  the  tavern. 

"Ah,  Noellet,"  cried  a  voice,  "come  in!" 

Several  of  the  drinkers  appeared  at  the  door, 
repeating  the  invitation: 

"Noellet!  Noellet!" 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  but  finally  decided  to 
turn  back. 

His  entrance  was  greeted  by  a  surprised  mur- 
mur. All  eyes  turned  toward  him.  But  in  the 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  93 

midst  of  these  men,  who  yet  belonged  to  his  own 
world,  he  felt  himself  ill  at  ease.  He  was  conscious 
of  an  atmosphere  around  him  of  silent  hostility. 
His  face  was  a  little  pale  as  he  walked  up  to 
Louis  Fauvepre. 

"Why,  it  is  Noellet  from  La  Geniviere!  Little 
Noellet,  whom  I  knew  when  he  was  no  higher 
than  that,"  exclaimed  the  corporal,  grasping  his 
hand. 

"Yes,  it  is  he  himself,"  replied  Pierre. 

"You  don't  look,  my  boy,  as  if  you  had  done 
much  ploughing, ' '  continued  the  corporal.  ' '  What 
are  you  doing  here?" 

He  had  no  malicious  intention  in  asking  the 
question,  but  the  old  school-fellows  whom  Pierre 
had  neglected,  and  who  were  jealous  of  him  as  well 
as  angry  at  his  scornful  behaviour,  seeing  their 
opportunity  for  revenge,  began  laughing  and  jok- 
ing in  a  coarse  sort  of  way.  They  were  at  the 
moment  in  full  force.  One  of  them,  impossible  to 
distinguish  among  the  numbers  crowcUng  round 
the  tables,  was  bold  enough  to  call  out  in  reply: 

"What  is  he  doing?  Nothing.  He  is  a  gentle- 
man; salute  him,  corporal." 

A  second  followed  his  example,  and  insulting 
words,  greeted  by  the  majority  present  with  evi- 
dent satisfaction,  began  to  pour  down  on  Pierre. 
Taken  back  at  first  by  this  sudden  attack,  he  tried 
at  first  to  stand  out  against  his  assailants.  He 
was  standing  among  the  drinkers  a  few  steps  off 
from  Fauvepre,  and  at  each  fresh  insult  hurled  at 
him  he  turned  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  another, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  catch  the  culprit,  who 


94  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

hid  himself  behind  the  others,  and  Pierre's  ris- 
ing anger  only  served  to  increase  the  hilarity. 
Finally,  he  crossed  his  arms,  and,  looking  toward 
the  farther  end  of  the  room,  cried  out : 

"You  are  cowards,  every  one  of  you;  not  one 
dares  say  anything  to  my  face." 

"I  will  dare  it  with  pleasure,  my  little  dear," 
answered  a  voice. 

The  "little"  one  addressed  was  at  least  five 
feet  three  in  height,  and  had  the  build  of  a  man, 
but  the  other  man  was  of  colossal  stature.  A 
regular  giant,  a  fniller's  servant,  red  in  hair  and 
face,  now  crossed  the  room  swinging  his  enormous 
shoulders,  and  came  and  planted  himself  in  front 
of  Pierre. 

"Here  I  am,"  he  said.  "It's  with  me  you  have 
to  deal.  What's  your  complaint?" 

"Why  do  you  insult  me?"  asked  Noellet. 

"Because  you  treat  us  with  contempt." 

"That's  it.  Bravo,  miller!  Well  spoken!" 
cried  several  of  the  men. 

"Because,"  continued  the  miller,  "you  were 
not  born  any  better  than  we  were,  and  you  ape 
the  gentleman;  because  we  were  all  together  at 
school,  and  now  you  will  know  none  of  us." 

"Is  it  my  fault  that  my  studies  have  separated 
me  from  you?" 

"  No ;  but  I  consider  it  your  fault  that  you  forget 
to  nod  to  us  down  in  the  town,  and  are  ashamed  to 
drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  us,  or  to  j  oin  our  company. ' ' 

"Last  Sunday  you  pretended  not  to  see  me," 
added  another  of  those  present. 

"Or  me  either,"  put  in  a  second. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  95 

"Your  brother  is  a  ploughman  like  ourselves," 
said  a  third. 

"See  now,"  exclaimed  Pierre,  who  was  growing 
more  nervous  every  minute,  "you  are  all  jealous 
of  me." 

Half  of  the  drinkers  rose  at  this,  and,  thumping 
their  fists  on  the  table,  cried : 

"Jealous  of  what?  Turn  him  out!  Jump  upon 
him,  miller!" 

The  miller  turned  back  his  cuffs,  sneering  as  he 
did  so;  he  then  brought  his  two  fists  close  to 
Pierre's  chest. 

The  latter  did  not  appear  in  the  least  discon- 
certed, but  throwing  up  his  head,  and  looking 
straight  at  all  the  mocking,  menacing  faces  and 
the  raised  fists,  only  cried: 

"Jealous  of  the  teaching  that  places  me  above 
you,  that  is  what  you  are." 

A  burst  of  anger  greeted  this  bravado,  and  the 
clamour  did  not  soon  subside.  Even  those  who 
had  taken  no  part  in  the  quarrel  began  to  grow 
angry  and  protest.  Pierre  meanwhile,  threatened 
and  insulted  on  all  sides,  at  last  understood  what 
he  had  till  then  but  feebly  recognized — that  he 
was  an  alien  among  his  own  people,  disowned  and 
driven  away  by  them. 

The  child  had  disdained  the  land,  and  the  land, 
in  its  turn,  had  rejected  the  man. 

He  hesitated  no  longer,  but  exclaimed  proudly: 

"Adieu,  boys  of  Fief!  It  will  be  long  before 
you  see  me  again." 

And  forcing  a  way  for  himself,  he  reached  the 
door  amid  cries  and  hoots. 


96  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

In  vain  Louis  Fauvepre,  who  was  quite  in  the 
dark  as  to  the  cause  of  this  outbreak  of  anger, 
endeavoured  to  stop  him,  and  to  soothe  the  ex- 
citement of  these  men  of  Vendee. 

"Come  back,  Noellet!  Come  back!"  he  called; 
"they  are  only  in  fun." 

But  Pierre  was  already  out  on  the  road,  on  his 
way  to  La  Geniviere. 

As  he  neared  the  barn,  before  turning  into  the 
courtyard,  he  caught  sight  of  Jacques  busy  set- 
ting a  trap  for  the  blackbirds  under  a  gooseberry 
tree  laden  with  ripe  red  fruits. 

"Where  is  father?"  he  asked,  without  pausing. 

"In  the  granary  turning  the  grain." 

Pierre  sprang  up  the  flat  runged  ladder  which 
served  as  a  staircase.  He  paused  when  he  reached 
the  top  before  approaching  his  father,  which  was 
always  rather  a  formidable  affair.  Moreover,  he 
was  so  overcome  and  out  of  breath  that  he  could 
not  at  first  have  spoken. 

The  farmer,  with  a  wooden  spade  in  his  hand, 
was  at  the  right-hand  end  of  the  granary,  digging 
into  an  immense  pile  of  the  last  year's  wheat, 
bringing  the  underlying  grain  to  the  top  that  it 
might  dry  better.  He  never  allowed  any  one  to 
do  this  work  for  him.  The  streams  of  red  gold, 
as  they  poured  down  the  sides  of  the  heap  from  his 
spade,  with  the  rustling  sound  of  falling  sand,  or 
of  coins,  were  a  delight  to  the  old  peasant.  The 
grain  represented  the  life  and  the  profit  of  the 
year.  No  doubt,  as  he  turned  it  over,  he  recalled 
the  needless  fears  he  had  suffered,  the  storms  that 
had  swamped  his  fields,  the  droughts  that  had 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  97 

burnt  them  up,  the  fear-giving  days  of  threshing, 
and  knowing  all  these  troubles  past,  he  smiled  at 
his  acquired  riches. 

Although  occupied  with  his  task,  and  working 
with  his  face  turned  to  the  end  wall,  he  became 
quickly  aware,  by  the  lessening  of  the  light,  that 
someone  was  standing  between  him  and  the  door. 
He  turned  and  saw  his  son,  who  was  hesitating  to 
accost  him,  pausing  just  within  the  entrance, 
dressed,  as  he  hated  to  see  him,  in  the  clothes  of 
the  better  class.  His  quiet,  sunburnt  face  grew 
serious,  and,  leaning  on  his  spade,  he  waited, 
while  the  white  dust  he  had  raised  hung  all  around 
him,  and  danced  in  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

"Father,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  have  some- 
thing I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

" Speak  on,"  replied  his  father;  "we  can  talk 
as  we  like  here,  for  the  women  are  in  the  town." 

"Father,  you  treated  me  roughly  yesterday 
when  I  returned  with  La  Roussette." 

"You  deserved  it,  my  boy;  you  were  wanting 
in  respect  to  me." 

"What  is  more,  you  think  that  for  the  last 
month  I  have  been  doing  nothing,  that  as  yet 
I  am  nothing,  and  that  displeases  you;  is  it  not 
so?" 

"Most  certainly  you  cannot  continue  to  live 
and  do  nothing  here,  where  everybody  has  their 
work." 

"They  have  told  me  that  often  enough,  those 
Fief  boys,  and  have  insulted  me  in  every  possible 
way." 

"When  was  that?" 


98  "T HIS,   MY  SON77 

"Just  now,  down  at  Joberie's;  and  I  can  see 
plainly  from  what  you  and  they  have  said  to  me 
that  I  am  one  too  many  here." 

" Pierre,  I  never  said  that!" 

"No;  but  I  felt  it,  and  that  is  enough — I  shall 
go  away." 

"Where  do  you  intend  going?" 

"Somewhere  a  long  way  off." 

"And  when?" 

"To-morrow." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  The  moment 
had  come.  The  question  which  had  been  tor- 
menting Julien  for  months  past  was  now  to  be 
answered.  And  how?  The  answer,  as  yet  un- 
known, hung  in  suspense  between  them.  Would 
it  be  joy,  pride  in  a  resumed  vocation,  or  the 
repetition  of  one  already  spoken? 

Master  of  himself  as  was  Julien  Noellet,  his 
voice  was  feeble,  and  trembled  as  he  continued : 

"What  place,  then,  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"Paris." 

"There  may  be  a  seminary  at  Paris — say,  my 
dear  son,  is  it  to  that  you  are  going  ?" 

"No." 

"What  then?"  asked  the  father,  his  face  turn- 
ing white  with  anguish  as  he  spoke. 

"I  told  you  that  I  could  not  be  a  priest;  it  is 
useless  to  speak  of  it  any  further." 

It  was  all  over,  then!  The  farmer  began  to 
shake  all  over,  as  on  the  day  when  his  son's  deci- 
sion had  first  broken  in  upon  the  peace  of  his  soul. 
To  hide  his  trembling  he  turned  round  and  began 
again  to  dig  up  the  grain  in  large  spadefuls.  But 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  99 

his  eyes  must  have  grown  dim,  for  the  wheat 
rolled  on  to  the  floor.  When  at  last  he  paused,  he 
wiped  his  forehead,  stuck  his  spade  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  heap,  and  went  and  leant  against  the 
wall  at  the  end,  as  if  the  last  few  minutes'  work 
had  exhausted  him. 

"Pierre,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  rang  with  a 
poignant  sadness,  "when  you  were  small,  and  up 
to  the  time  you  were  fifteen,  I  thought  that  you 
were  going  to  be  my  help,  and  that  you  would 
carry  on  the  farm  after  my  death.  The  thought 
gave  me  joy  and  peace  of  heart." 

"It  was  natural  that  you  should  think  so,"  re- 
plied Pierre. 

"Then  you  told  us  that  you  wished  to  be  a 
priest.  I  made  you  wait  a  year.  Then  you  went 
to  college,  and  I  turned  my  hopes  to  Jacques. 
I  did  not  think  they  would  take  him  from  me  to 
serve.  I  was  mistaken.  They  did  take  him. 
And  now  you  are  going  from  me,  and  I  shall  be 
left  at  La  Geniviere  alone  with  farm  servants,  as 
if  I  were  a  man  without  sons!" 

"It  is  hard  for  you,  father;  but  what  can  I  do?" 

"No,  Pierre,  that  is  not  the  saddest  part  of  it. 
Then  I  said  yes  to  you;  I  let  you  finish  your 
training;  I  did  not  go  back  from  my  word.  And 
you,  why  have  you  changed  your  mind?" 

The  young  man  hung  his  head  without  an- 
swering. 

"Yes,  a  great  change  has  come  over  you.  Why 
is  it?  If  God  wished  for  you  yesterday,  why  does 
He  no  longer  wish  for  you  to-day?" 

Still  Pierre  did  not  speak. 


100  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"I  have  been  troubled  in  mind  for  a  long  time 
now  about  it.  Have  I  in  any  way  set  you  a  bad 
example?" 

"Oh  no!"  exclaimed  Pierre  hastily. 

"Have  you  noticed  anything  in  my  speech  or 
manner  of  over-much  regret  at  not  having  you 
for  the  farm?  Ah,  dear  son,  there  have  been  days 
when  it  has  been  so  with  me,  but  I  know  I  was 
wrong.  Is  that  the  reason?" 

"No,  father,  it  is  no  fault  of  yours  at  all." 

"Then  it  has  to  do  with  you.  What  have  you 
done?  Tell  me.  Your  mother  shall  know  noth- 
ing of  it,  I  promise  you.  Tell  me,  for  it  is  as  great 
a  trouble  to  me  to  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  that  as 
to  see  you  go  from  me." 

There  was  something  so  touching  about  the  old 
father  in  his  self-accusation,  in  his  humble  con- 
fession of  a  passing  weakness,  while  he  had  no 
word  of  reproach  for  his  son,  that  Pierre  decided 
to  tell  him  all.  But  there  was  no  humility  in  his 
confession.  He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  his 
father,  and  the  farmer  saw  the  dark  red  light 
come  into  the  eyes  which  he  had  noticed  with 
anxiety  in  Pierre  as  a  child  when  he  was  angry  or 
obstinate. 

"I  have  not  changed,"  said  Pierre,  "any  more 
than  I  shall  change.  There  is  no  need  to  accuse 
yourself  or  any  one  else.  When  I  asked  you  to  let 
me  go  to  college,  it  was  with  the  desire  to  raise 
myself — I  had  no  other  distinct  aim  in  view.  Of 
what  use  is  it  to  dissimulate  any  longer?  When 
I  was  ten  years  old  the  thought  of  being  a  priest 
no  doubt  crossed  my  mind.  But  in  my  total 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  101 

ignorance  of  the  world  it  meant  chiefly  to  me  the 
getting  away  from  the  land.  Farm-life  did  not 
suit  my  tastes.  I  aspired  to  rise  above  the  sur- 
roundings into  which  I  had  been  born;  to  gain 
a  position,  as  others  had;  to  grow  happy,  rich, 
and  powerful,  by  help  of  the  intellect  that  I  felt 
I  possessed.  When  I  said  to  you  at  fifteen,  'I 
wish  to  be  a  priest/  I  took  the  only  means  in  my 
power  to  escape  from  the  conditions  of  my  birth." 

The  father,  still  leaning  against  the  wall,  did 
not  seem  to  understand. 

"What  other  way  was  open  to  me  to  get  away 
from  here?"  continued  Pierre.  "Would  you 
have  let  me  go  if  I  had  proposed  to  you  to  be  a 
lawyer,  doctor,  notary,  or  any  other  thing  what- 
soever? You  know  you  would  not;  and  I  knew 
it  also.  Ah!  the  land  keeps  tight  hold  on  those 
she  has  once  in  her  grasp.  I  was  obliged  to  pre- 
tend I  felt  a  vocation  that  I  did  not,  in  order  that 
I  might  learn  Latin,  and  be  taught  like  the  rich 
people's  children,  so  as  to  become  their  equal, 
since  I  was  born  beneath  them.  I  do  not  regret 
what  I  did;  I  accomplished  what  I  wished,  for 
here  I  am  free!" 

"Then  you  deceived  me!"  cried  the  farmer, 
leaning  forward  with  clenched  fists,  as  if  to  spring 
on  his  son  and  punish  the  insolence  of  his  words. 

"Do  you  think  it  cost  me  nothing?  I  needed 
all  the  determination  that  you  have  transmitted 
to  me  with  your  blood  to  leave  you  so  long  in 
error.  You  thought  me  strange  and  whimsical; 
I  was  only  tortured  by  the  lie  that  stood  between 
us.  I  saw  you  indulging  in  a  dream  that  had  been 


102  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

but  an  unformed,  flitting  fancy  for  me,  and  one 
which  I  knew  I  must  myself  some  day  dispel. 
I  suffered,  believe  me,  in  seeing  you  rejoicing  in 
a  false  hope,  so  much  so  that  I  had  not  the  cour- 
age to  carry  out  my  resolution  to  the  end.  I  ought 
to  have  held  my  tongue  for  five  whole  years, 
instead  of  which  I  gave  in  at  the  fourth  year, 
telling  you  that  I  could  never  be  a  priest.  You 
know  the  rest." 

"And  you  were  not  ashamed,"  said  the  father, 
whose  anger  was  now  rising  and  threatening, 
"to  deceive  us  all — me,  your  mother,  your  mas- 
ters, the  whole  country?" 

"I  was  obliged  to." 

"You  have  allowed  us  to  deprive  ourselves  for 
five  years  in  order  to  send  you  to  college,  and  to 
pay  for  your  gentleman's  clothes  and  your  books. 
You  have  stolen  three  thousand  francs  of  my 
money." 

"Stolen,  father?" 

"Yes,  stolen,  for  I  should  never  have  given 
them  to  you  if  you  had  not  lied  to  me,  and  you 
have  had  the  face  to  come  and  tell  me  this,  and 
to  excuse  yourself  by  insulting  the  land.  Wretched 
boy!  Do  you  realize  who  it  is  you  scorn?  It  is 
I;  it  is  your  mother " 

"No,  no." 

"It  is  all  those  from  whom  you  have  sprung, 
and  who  tilled  the  land  before  me.  Ah,  you  are 
ashamed  of  us!  Ah,  you  disown  La  Geniviere! 
Begone  from  it,  then,  ungrateful  son!" 

The  peasant  had  seized  his  spade  again.  He 
was  white  and  trembling  with  rage. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  103 

"Go,  I  say,"  he  repeated,  drawing  near  to 
Pierre;  "not  to-morrow — to-day.  It  is  I  who 
drive  you  away." 

Pierre  stood  without  moving,  clenching  his 
teeth,  and  let  the  old  man  come  within  two  paces 
of  him  to  show  he  was  not  afraid. 

Then  he  walked  backward  toward  the  door, 
saying: 

"I  was  right  in  thinking  that  you  would  not 
understand  a  man's  ambition.  I  have  risen  in 
spite  of  you,  and  I  shall  arrive  in  spite  of  you — in 
spite  of  you." 

At  this  last  affront  the  farmer  flung  the  spade 
up  over  his  head. 

"Be  ofif  with  you!"  he  cried;  "be  off  with 
you!" 

Pierre  obeyed,  and  slowly  descended  the  lad- 
der, disturbed  and  frightened  at  the  recollection 
of  his  own  boldness,  but  not  in  any  degree  shaken 
in  mind.  His  lips  moved,  and  he  spoke  aloud,  con- 
tinuing the  conversation  that  had  been  inter- 
rupted. There  was  no  one  in  the  court-yard; 
Pierre  crossed  it.  All  the  doors  were  shut.  The 
windows  of  the  house  flashed  in  the  sun.  Around 
the  pools  of  liquid  manure,  scattered  with  straws 
that  shone  like  blades  of  gold,  the  ducks  sat  fast 
asleep,  their  heads  under  their  wings.  Evidently 
the  women-folk  had  not  returned.  He  turned  as 
he  reached  the  stable,  but  his  father  was  no  longer 
visible  through  the  granary  window.  He  went 
quietly  in,  and  seeing  a  fresh  pile  of  straw  for  the 
horses,  threw  himself  upon  it  face  downward  like 
an  angry  child. 


104  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

There  he  could  give  full  vent  to  his  feelings  by 
uttering  imprecations  to  which  the  only  response 
was  the  laboured  breathing  of  La  Huasse,  now  old 
and  broken-winded,  in  front  of  her  empty  manger. 
This  state  of  angry  feeling  lasted  a  long  time. 
Finally,  however,  the  solitude  began  to  sober 
him.  Having,  as  he  felt,  exhausted  his  re- 
proaches, he  sat  up. 

At  that  moment  a  young  voice  near  him  ex- 
claimed : 

"My  poor  Pierre!" 

He  turned  his  head. 

"My  poor  Pierre!    Are  you  again  in  trouble?" 

It  was  Antoinette  leaning  over  him  with  her 
pretty  face,  looking  at  him  with  the  clear  bright 
eyes  of  her  fifteen  years,  into  which  had  come  an 
expression  of  astonishment.  What  trouble  could 
have  so  upset  her  brother?  What  had  he  to  com- 
plain about?  She  had  no  idea.  But,  feeling  a  joy 
and  tenderness  within  her  sufficient  for  two,  she 
took  hold  of  her  brother's  hand  very  gently  and 
full  of  self-confidence.  Sisters  have  these  mater- 
nal ways  with  them  when  still  very  young. 

"Come,  my  Pierre,"  she  said,  "and  let  me  com- 
fort you,"  and  Pierre  obeyed  her  call,  and  together 
they  went  to  a  spot  well  known  to  them,  and 
favourable  for  confidences,  behind  an  immense 
heap  of  straw,  near  the  ravine. 

There,  in  readiness  for  future  gates,  the  father 
kept  his  reserve  of  the  cherry  trees  and  elms  that 
had  been  cut  down.  Pierre  in  a  few  words  told 
her  abruptly,  almost  roughly,  the  decision  he  had 
come  to,  and  how  his  father  had  driven  him 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  105 

away.  Then  almost  without  a  pause,  and  in  self- 
defence,  he  began  to  tell  of  the  future.  He  did  it 
cleverly,  avoiding  all  reproaches. 

"My  father  has  never  understood  me,"  he 
said;  " he  is  not  educated.  It  was  natural  that  it 
should  be  so." 

The  future  for  Pierre  meant  only  dreams  and 
ambitions — a  sort  of  brilliant  rainbow  which  he 
took  for  a  pathway.  Men,  events,  time — every- 
thing was  to  serve  his  aims,  and  he  disposed  of 
them  as  if  they  were  his  own  property.  Every- 
thing had  been  foreseen,  even  certain  objections: 
the  difficulty,  for  example,  of  making  a  name  or  of 
simply  finding  a  place  in  the  literary  world.  But 
was  not  literature  the  indisputably  right  vocation 
for  Pierre  Noellet  with  his  degree,  with  his  first 
prize  for  French  lecturing  at  Beaupre*au? 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  "I  shall  grow  rich,  and  then 
I  shall  be  able  to  help  you  all.  Father  will  forgive 
me,  and  all  these  fools  who  were  laughing  at  me 
down  there,  you  will  see  how  they  will  take  off 
their  hats  to  me!  We  shall  be  happy;  you,  An- 
toinette, will  be  proud  of  me,  and  then,  you 
know,"  he  added,  turning  to  her,  "I  shall  perhaps 
be  thought  a  good  match.  What  do  you  say  to 
that?" 

Poor  Antoinette!  The  more  excited  Pierre 
became  the  more  she  felt  her  own  spirits  failing. 
What,  no  abbe"!  no  white  alb!  Where  was  the 
retiring,  simple-hearted  brother  of  the  old  days  ? 
She  was  overcome,  and  unable  to  speak.  Pierre, 
growing  aware  of  this,  exclaimed: 

"Well,  Antoinette,  are  you  going  to  start  cry- 


106  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

ing?  I  see  nothing  sad  in  what  I  have  just  been 
telling  you." 

She  could  hold  out  no  longer,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"Ah,  yes,  Pierre,  it  is  sad!  And  I  am  very  un- 
happy, very!" 

And  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  as  if  to 
keep  him  from  running  away  from  La  Geniviere, 
and  to  hold  him  to  the  past.  Her  sisterly  affec- 
tion was  all  the  argument  her  child's  heart  could 
oppose  to  his  confession  and  plans. 

It  might  have  sufficed  with  another,  but  Pierre 
thrust  her  from  him. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  rising,  "you  do  not  understand 
me  any  better  than  the  others." 

And  while  she  kept  on  repeating  amid  her  tears, 
"Oh!  indeed,  I  love  you,  Pierre — I  assure  you  I 
do  understand  a  little,"  he  went  forward  a  few 
paces  to  where  the  ravine  ran  along  beside  the 
threshing-floor,  and,  turning  under  the  trees  into 
a  path  made  by  the  goats,  he  disappeared. 

Antoinette  went  back  toward  the  house. 
Pierre,  having  reached  the  bottom  of  the  ravine, 
wandered  a  while  about  the  meadows  of  La  Geni- 
viere ,  and  it  was  here  that  the  frenzy  of  pride  that 
had  been  excited  by  his  father's  reproaches,  and 
in  part  by  his  sister's  distress,  began  to  be  mingled 
with  feelings  aroused  by  the  thought  of  his  de- 
parture. The  shadow  of  the  high  wall  upon  which 
La  Geniviere  was  built  was  thrown  far  across  the 
valley.  The  mist,  which  rose  as  night  came  on,  by 
degrees  hid  the  more  distant  points  of  the  familiar 
landscape.  The  thought  arose  in  Pierre  that  there 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  107 

were  already  many  things  that  had  disappeared 
for  him,  and  which  he  would  never  see  again.  He 
looked  around  him  at  the  narrowing  horizon,  at 
the  darkening  water,  at  the  rocks  which  were 
growing  indistinguishable  from  the  bushes  that 
clothed  the  slope.  How  often  had  he  sat  guarding 
the  cattle  by  the  curved  banks  of  the  river,  where 
for  hardly  a  day  in  the  course  of  the  year  did  the 
aspens  cease  quivering  in  the  breeze.  How  often 
he  and  Jacques  had  sung  and  whistled  and  played 
together  there! 

Here  was  the  hollow  where  they  sheltered  from 
the  sudden  storm,  and  the  old  chestnut  tree  with 
the  hut  of  rushes  still  to  be  seen  supported  by  its 
forked  trunk,  and  beyond,  again,  the  ploughed 
lands  stretching  to  the  summit  of  the  rising  ground 
on  the  farther  side  of  the  ravine.  What  long,  ex- 
quisite hours  had  been  spent  in  this  little  corner 
of  the  world!  How  they  seemed  now  to  call  to 
him  from  the  inanimate  objects  around,  with 
voices  that  shook  the  soul!  It  is  a  sweet  and  a 
hard  lesson  that  the  child  teaches  to  the  man  who 
is  leaving  home,  and  Pierre  was  not  deaf  to  it. 
Other  recollections  led  him  on.  In  the  darkness 
that  was  now  complete  he  climbed  again  up  to 
the  farm,  and  crept  along  beside  the  stable  wall 
like  a  thief;  then,  hearing  no  sound,  the  desire 
seized  him  to  have  a  last  look  at  the  beasts.  There 
they  were,  standing  in  a  row  in  front  of  their 
mangers,  which  were  filled  with  maize,  only  just 
distinguishable  in  the  faint  light  that  still  re- 
mained. He  recognized  them  all,  notwithstand- 
ing, and  called  them  each  by  name — Vermais, 


108  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

Fauveau,  Chauvin,  Rougeais,  Caille,  and  Kobiais. 
He  passed  along  behind  them,  and  the  gentle 
beasts  turned  their  heads  to  follow  him  with  their 
melancholy  eyes.  La  Roussette  was  also  there. 
He  gave  her  a  little  slap  on  her  hind-quarters: 
"Adieu,  my  Roussette,"  he  called.  Farther  on  he 
came  to  the  shed  with  the  ploughs  and  harrows, 
to  the  large  heap  of  straw,  the  barn,  and  the  roost- 
ing chickens,  which  woke  up  and  bent  their 
crests.  He  walked  hi  and  out  of  the  buildings,  now 
wrapped  in  shadow,  as  among  ruins,  led  by  the 
old  habit,  and  surprised  that  he  was  no  longer 
able  to  feel  indifferent  about  anything.  All  these 
dead  and  living  things,  to  which  he  was  about  to 
say  good-by,  held  him  back  with  some  strange 
power;  and  yet  it  was  the  least  painful  of  his 
farewells.  On  the  farther  side  of  the  windows, 
through  which  shone  the  warm  blaze  of  the  fire, 
his  mother  and  Jacques  and  his  sisters  were  sitting 
together.  They  all  knew  of  the  sorrow  that  had 
fallen  on  La  Geniviere.  They  were  expecting  him. 
Pierre  went  up  the  steps.  They  all  knew  his 
footstep. 

When  he  appeared  on  the  threshold,  Marie, 
who  was  clearing  away  the  supper  that  no  one 
had  touched,  drew  back  as  if  seized  with  terror, 
and  with  the  air  of  exclaiming:  "See  the  evil  you 
have  wrought!"  Then  she  went  and  sat  down  by 
her  mother.  But  was  that  indeed  his  mother,  that 
woman  seated  in  a  low  chair  at  the  back  of  the 
room,  bending  forward,  with  her  gray  hair  escap- 
ing from  her  cap,  and  her  face  dull  and  distorted 
with  sorrow!  Her  eyes,  although  staring  in  the 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  109 

direction  of  her  son,  seemed  not  to  see  him  when 
he  entered.  Not  a  feature  of  the  face  usually  so 
mobile  now  stirred. 

Poor  Mere  Noellet,  who  till  then  had  been  so 
fond  of  her  child,  so  happy  in  giving  him  to  God, 
whose  maternal  love  had  thereby  acquired  a  touch 
of  religious  respect,  so  far  had  she  been  from  any 
doubt  on  the  subject  of  his  vocation,  which  had 
been  the  fulfilment  of  long-cherished  dreams. 
And  then  all  at  once  to  be  precipitated  from 
this  height,  to  be  struck  by  a  blow  for  which 
she  was  so  totally  unprepared!  Two  hours  had 
sufficed  to  exhaust  her  tears  and  the  strength 
and  energy  of  her  life.  She  now  sat  like  one 
stupefied. 

Pierre  went  up  to  her. 

"Mother!"  he  said. 

But  she  did  not  hold  out  her  arms,  generally  so 
ready  to  embrace  him  at  the  first  word  of  affec- 
tion. The  hands  which  had  rocked  him  lay  inert 
in  her  lap. 

" Mother,"  he  said  again,  as  he  leant  over  her. 
"Why  do  you  sit  like  that?  I  assure  you  that  it 
is  far  better  for  me  to  go — I  shall  return — I  shall 

Rich,  happy — he  could  not  add  these  two 
words.  There  was  a  weight  at  his  heart,  and  a 
tear,  the  first  he  had  shed,  rolled  down  his  cheek 
as  he  kissed  the  poor  face  of  the  mother  who  had 
made  the  years  at  La  Geniviere  so  happy  and 
peaceful.  She  gave  him  one  feeble  kiss.  Her  lips 
were  quite  cold.  Their  touch  sent  a  shock  as  of 
pain  through  Pierre. 


110  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

He  stood  upright  again,  and  saw  that  his 
mother's  eyes  were  no  longer  looking  at  him;  he 
turned  in  the  direction  of  their  gaze. 

His  father  was  leaning  against  one  of  the  up- 
rights of  the  fireplace,  his  forehead  drawn  into  a 
deep  line,  and  looking  as  fierce  as  when  a  short 
time  before  in  the  granary  he  had  cried:  "Go!  It 
is  I  who  drive  you  away."  The  old  Vend£ean  was 
there  to  see  his  word  carried  into  execution.  The 
mother  might  plead,  and  he  himself  might  suffer, 
but  nothing  would  prevail  against  the  outraged 
honour  of  the  family. 

Pierre,  however,  went  up  to  him  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

"Good-by,  father,"  he  said. 

The  farmer,  unmoved,  did  not  stir  from  his 
position,  but  with  his  hands  still  behind  his  back 
replied: 

"Put  your  things  together  and  make  haste; 
Jacques  will  help  you  to  carry  them." 

Pierre  turned  away.  He  felt  that  everything 
was  over.  He  looked  round  for  Jacques  and  saw 
him  kneeling  in  one  corner  with  Antoinette,  beside 
the  old  oilskin  trunk,  just  finishing  the  packing  of 
some  clothes  and  linen,  and  a  few  small  things 
wrapped  in  paper.  More  things  certainly  than 
Pierre  possessed.  He  staggered  across  the  room; 
he  felt  that  at  last  his  strength  was  going  from 
him. 

"Good-by,  Marie,"  he  said  weakly.  "Good- 
by,  Antoinette;  come,  Jacques." 

He  seized  one  side  of  the  trunk  and  Jacques 
the  other,  and  they  slipped  out  together  through 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  111 

the  open  door,  leaving  the  women  weeping 
afresh. 

It  was  dark  outside  and  the  air  was  sharp.  The 
brothers  hastened  along  the  road  in  order  to 
catch  the  coach  that  ran  from  Beaupre*au  to 
Cholet.  They  hardly  spoke  at  all,  each  being  full 
of  his  own  thoughts,  and  even  when  they  paused 
and  put  the  box  down  to  take  breath,  it  was  done 
of  tacit  accord  and  almost  without  a  word. 

At  the  end  of  three-quarters  of  an  hour  they 
reached  Beaupre*au. 

When  they  came  to  Breteaudeau's  Inn,  they 
found  the  coach  ready  to  start,  the  awning  fast- 
ened, the  door  open,  and  the  innkeeper  giving 
a  final  inspection  of  the  harness. 

Pierre  and  Jacques  embraced  one  another. 

"Have  you  enough  money  to  take  you  to 
Paris?"  asked  Jacques. 

"I  have  not  much,"  replied  Pierre — "just 
enough  for  the  journey.  But  once  there  I  shall 
find  Loutrel,  who  will  give  me  some.  I  foresaw 
all  this,  you  see,  some  time  ago." 

"Mother  has  been  worrying  about  it,"  said  the 
younger,  "and  she  has  put  forty  francs  in  the 
trunk,  to  the  left  among  the  handkerchiefs.  We 
shall  see  each  other  again,  shall  we  not,  Pierre?" 

"I  don't  know,  Jacques.  Be  a  good  soldier, 
since  you  are  obliged  to  serve.  Keep  well — thank 
mother  for  me " 

A  moment  later  the  diligence  had  started,  and 
was  already  climbing  the  hill.  Jacques,  running 
as  hard  as  he  could,  followed  for  a  little  while  in 
the  dense  shadow. 


112  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

When  he  reached  the  last  houses  of  the  little 
town,  he  was  obliged  to  stop,  exhausted,  and  the 
red  rays  from  the  two  lanterns  which  had  been 
keeping  him  company  gradually  disappeared  in 
the  fog  and  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


IT  was  late,  long  after  midnight.  Jacques  was 
back  from  Beaupre*au.  The  farmer,  his  wife,  and 
Marie,  were  asleep  in  the  chambre,  but  Antoinette 
could  not  close  her  eyes;  agitated  in  mind,  all 
kinds  of  curious  and  disturbing  thoughts  kept 
sleep  away  from  her. 

When  from  the  steady  breathing  that  came 
from  the  adjoining  beds  she  was  sure  that  every- 
body was  sleep,  she  rose,  felt  for  the  key  of  the 
cupboard,  kept  under  one  of  the  candlesticks  on 
the  mantelpiece,  and  noiselessly  opened  the  pol- 
ished folding  doors  of  the  immense  piece  of  furni- 
ture on  which  the  light  from  the  moon  was  still 
resting.  An  odour  of  lavender  stole  into  the  room. 

The  large  cupboard  was  not  opened  every  day. 
On  each  shelf  were  layers  of  linen,  arranged  in  the 
most  beautiful  order,  without  a  fold  awry,  with- 
out a  spot,  or  a  hole  to  mend;  sheets,  table-nap- 
kins, handkerchiefs,  shirts,  and  here  and  there, 
in  the  niches  formed  by  the  inequalities  of  height 
of  these  white  piles,  an  orange  from  the  Landehue 
hot-houses,  a  bundle  of  receipts,  images,  pots  of 
grain,  a  bottle  of  arquebusade  water  with  a  little 
twig  in  soak — in  short,  all  kinds  of  precious  things. 
Antoinette,  with  the  unhesitatingness  that  comes 
with  habit,  put  her  hand  to  the  left,  and  from  the 
back  of  their  hiding-place  drew  forth  the  worked 

113 


114  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

roses  which  had  been  intended  for  the  alb.  One 
by  one  she  took  them  up,  and  looked  at  them  from 
the  first,  which  had  been  such  a  trouble  to  get 
right  to  the  last,  so  regular  in  its  blossoming. 
And  to  think  of  all  the  evenings  they  had  worked 
at  them — of  all  the  enthusiasm  and  happiness 
they  had  felt — of  all  the  hours  that  had  been  full 
of  the  thought  of  him.  She  seemed  to  live  them 
all  over  again  as  she  counted  the  dozens  of  roses 
which  she  carefully  placed  one  beside  the  other. 
There  were  more  roses  than  she  had  thought — 
eight,  nine,  twelve,  twenty — whole  piles.  How 
quickly  they  had  got  on  with  the  work ! 

Then  she  took  the  roses  and  wrapped  them  in 
a  napkin,  fastening  the  four  corners  together  with 
a  pin.  After  that  she  gave  a  last  look  at  the  little 
packet  that  contained  so  many  lost  hopes,  both 
of  her  own  and  others,  lifted  it  tenderly  to  her 
lips,  kissed  it,  and  then  quickly  shut  the  door  of 
the  cupboard. 

She  could  hardly  breathe;  she  felt  as  if  she  had 
just  interred  something  precious. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


TOWARD  the  end  of  the  summer  Melie  Rainette's 
father  died. 

It  was  no  great  loss  to  her,  but  still  she  was 
grieved  at  his  death.  Brutal  as  he  was,  Rainette 
had  not  been  without  his  good  moments.  And 
then,  even  though  drunk,  or  asleep,  there  had 
been  a  consciousness  of  his  presence — a  rough  wit- 
ness, it  is  true,  but  still  a  witness  to,  and  a  reason 
for,  her  labourious  life.  "Thanks  to  me,"  she  had 
often  said  to  herself,  "he  will  never  want  for  any- 
thing." And  the  thought  had  given  her  a  courage 
and  cheerfulness  beyond  belief. 

After  his  death,  the  days  seemed  longer  in  this 
house  where  nothing  moved  or  spoke  except  her- 
self. She  continued  working  in  the  evening,  lighted 
by  a  petroleum  lamp  hung  against  the  wall.  For 
her  father  had  left  debts  behind  him  which  would 
require  active  service  on  the  part  of  pedals  and 
shuttles  to  pay  off.  Supper  over — and  this  meal 
did  not  take  long — Melie  went  back  to  her  loom, 
and  late  into  the  night  she  might  be  seen  still  sit- 
ting on  her  weaver's  stool. 

This  explained  why  lately  she  had  become  more 

115 


116  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

dreamy.  That  which  she  could  no  longer  speak, 
she  dreamed  about,  as  well  as  about  a  good  many 
other  things,  of  which  she  never  would  have 
spoken.  But  this  did  not  prevent  her  sticking  val- 
iantly to  her  work,  or  from  being  good-humoured 
whenever  she  chanced  to  go  out  and  meet  her 
neighbours.  Solitude  had,  however,  developed  a 
taste  in  her  for  these  long  meditations  which 
delude  and  soothe  the  unoccupied  heart. 

Like  every  one  else  there  were  certain  things 
about  which  she  liked  to  sit  and  think  better  than 
others.  And,  possibly,  without  acknowledging  it 
to  herself,  it  was  of  Pierre  Noellet  she  thought  the 
most. 

How  could  it  have  been  otherwise?  Every  one 
was  talking  about  him.  His  sudden  departure  for 
Paris  had  been  quite  an  event  at  Fief-Sauvin. 
Some  of  the  kinder-hearted  people  pitied  the 
Noellets.  The  greater  number  talked  scandal 
about  the  matter  and  drew  a  warning  from  it  for 
others.  All  the  petty  jealousies  were  let  loose, 
and  everybody  gave  reins  to  their  imagination. 
Each  had  his  own  story,  and  every  story  was  taken 
up  and  discussed  to  satiety  among  this  rural  pop- 
ulation, that  was  full  of  curiosity  and  seldom  en- 
joyed the  chance  of  having  anything  new  to  talk 
about. 

"You  know  that  he  has  not  yet  written  ?"  said 
one  woman,  a  weaver;  "and  he  gone  a  month! 
It's  enough  to  make  Mere  Noellet  ill." 

"Well,  to  think  of  a  blow  like  that!"  replied 
Mere  Huet,  the  grocer's  wife,  as  she  sat  spinning 
on  her  doorstep.  "A  boy  who  has  cost  them  him- 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  117 

dreds  and  thousands  in  order  that  he  might  one 
day  be  a  priest,  and  he  has  never  even  set  his  foot 
inside  a  seminary.  I  hear  that  he  and  his  father 
came  to  blows." 

"Yes,  on  the  threshing-floor — the  miller  saw 
them.  The  father  had  a  fork  in  his  hand." 

"A  fork!" 

"And  the  boy  a  stick." 

"Did  they  hurt  each  other?" 

"No,  for  the  mother  ran  out  and  separated 
them.  But  it  is  a  sad  affair;  better  to  be  without 
children  altogether,  like  you,  Madame  Huet,  than 
to  have  such  a  son  as  Pierre  Noellet." 

"Let  the  boy  be,"  cried  out  the  elder  Fauvepre 
from  the  back  of  his  shop,  for  he  had  overheard 
the  women  talking.  "I  dare  say  he  was  in  the 
wrong,  but  I  shall  always  like  him." 

And  Melie  Rainette's  feeling  about  the  matter 
was  similar.  She  was  surprised  herself  at  having 
been  so  ready  to  side  with  him  in  his  change  of 
vocation,  which  seemed  to  others  so  sad  and 
blameworthy  a  matter;  for  she,  like  the  rest  of 
the  town,  still  believed  that  Pierre  had  really  felt 
himself  called  to  be  a  priest.  When  at  the  close 
of  service  on  Sundays  she  saw  the  Noellets,  no 
longer  looking  proud  and  willingly  stopping  to 
return  the  greetings  of  the  many  who  came  up  to 
shake  hands  with  them,  but  hurrying  home  by  the 
shortest  way  to  La  Geniviere,  she  questioned  her- 
self as  to  the  reason  of  her  indulgence  toward  the 
friend  of  her  youth.  She  found  none,  except  in 
the  number  and  violence  of  the  attacks  that  were 
made  upon  him  by  others.  Who  was  there  to 


118  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

stand  up  for  him,  if  she  did  not?  And  what  more 
natural  than  that  she  should  make  excuses  for  the 
brother,  seeing  that  she  was  his  sister's  most  inti- 
mate friend?  At  the  same  time,  she  did  not  al- 
ways dare  say  what  she  thought.  The  world  is  so 
evil,  so  ready  to  suppose  that  there  is  self-interest 
— a  something  of  egoism,  where  there  is  nothing 
but  pure  pity. 

It  happened  that  one  afternoon  in  October,  as 
she  was  meditatively  pursuing  the  same  train  of 
thought,  feeling  somewhat  anxious  at  the  lack  of 
news,  and  at  not  being  able  even  in  imagination 
to  follow  the  absent  one  about  that  Paris  she  had 
never  seen,  that  she  fell  asleep.  The  heat  was 
overpowering.  Huge  thunder  clouds,  curling  over 
at  the  edges  like  waves,  were  rising  from  every 
quarter.  In  the  street,  even  in  the  cellar,  where 
the  square  of  sunlight  fell  through  the  window, 
the  demented  flies  were  flying  in  and  out  among 
each  other,  exhausting  the  miserable  remainder  of 
their  lives  in  the  intoxication  of  noise  and  move- 
ment. Everything  human,  on  the  contrary,  was 
keeping  silence,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  few 
distant  sounds  of  work,  the  spinning-wheel  of 
Mere  Mitard,  and  the  shears  of  a  neighbour  who 
was  cutting  his  hedge,  one  might  have  taken  it 
for  a  deserted  town. 

Melie,  therefore,  was  sleeping,  with  her  head 
fallen  back  against  the  wall.  Her  arms  were 
hanging  down,  while  her  hand,  even  in  sleep,  still 
held  a  bit  of  thread,  even  as  her  head  still  held  a 
bit  of  thought. 

A  girl's  face  appeared,  looking  through  the 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  119 

window  from  the  outside,  smiled,  and  vanished. 
A  minute  later  the  trap-door  leading  to  the  cellar 
was  opened,  and  Antoinette  carefully  climbed 
down  the  ladder.  She  went  up  to  Melie,  drew  a 
letter  from  her  pocket,  while  her  smile  became 
more  pronounced  as  she  thought  of  the  surprise 
she  was  going  to  give  her  friend,  and  then  leaning 
over  the  sleeping  girl,  she  said : 

"Melie,  I  have  a  letter  from  Pierre,  in  which  he 
speaks  of  you." 

The  sleeper  slowly  opened  her  eyes,  without 
moving;  gradually  a  light  came  into  them — a 
look  of  intense  joy.  She  threw  her  arms  round 
Antoinette,  and  in  the  low-veiled  voice  of  one 
still  dreaming,  murmured: 

"Ah,  let  me  embrace  you." 

Pierre's  letter  was  neither  long  nor  very  affec- 
tionate ;  it  was  addressed  to  his  mother. 

"I  was  forced  to  leave  La  Geniviere  under  cir- 
cumstances which  prevented  me  from  speaking  to 
my  father  on  a  matter  upon  which  it  is  necessary 
for  me  now  to  enter.  I  am  driven  from  home — 
that  is  understood;  I  am  reduced  to  earning  an 
independent  living  for  myself,  without  any  help 
or  assistance  from  you,  and  I  accept  the  fact,  and 
acknowledge  that  I  brought  it  upon  myself;  but 
I  have  a  right  which  my  father  cannot  deny  me, 
that  of  asking  for  the  money  which  was  left  me 
four  years  ago  as  a  legacy  by  my  uncle  of  Mon- 
tre vault.  I  am  lodging  with  Loutrel,  on  the  Quai 
du  Louvre,  and  am  living  on  money  which  he  has 
advanced  me;  but  this  state  of  things  cannot 
continue. 


120  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"As  regards  other  matters,  I  am  in  good  health, 
and  I  hope  shortly  to  get  employment  which  will 
be  sufficient  to  keep  me  while  I  wait  for  what  the 
future  will  bring  me. 

"If  there  are  any  at  Fief-Sauvin  whom  I  may 
still  consider  as  friends,  remember  me  to  them. 
Tell  Me"lie,  who  was  always  kind  to  me,  that  I 
have  not  forgotten  her." 

There  was  nothing  more  in  the  letter  beyond 
a  commonplace  expression  of  affection  to  his 
mother. 

When  Me*lie  had  finished  her  perusal  of  the  let- 
ter, reading  the  last  words  over  a  second  time,  she 
said: 

"I  am  the  only  person  he  mentions  by  name." 
And  the  smile  that  had  lighted  them  before  rose 
again  to  her  eyes,  but,  unwilling  to  let  the  younger 
girl  see  her  happiness,  which  she  would  not  have 
understood,  she  added  quickly:  "Your  mother 
will  feel  easier  in  her  mind  now." 

"A  little;  she  was  quite  ill  with  the  suspense  of 
the  long  silence." 

"And  your  father?" 

"Oh,  my  father." 

"What  has  he  said  in  answer  to  Pierre's  de- 
mand?" 

"He  said:  'I  will  send  him  neither  the  money 
he  asks  for  nor  any  other.  I  have  already  spent 
more  upon  him  than  I  ought;  we  are  now  quits. 
What  is  more,  the  money  left  by  his  uncle  of  Mon- 
trevault  is  vested  in  my  land,  in  my  cattle,  in  the 
wheat  that  I  sow  and  reap.  Let  him  come,  then, 
and  fetch  it!'" 


"THIS,  MY   SON"  121 

"He  always  irritated  Maitre  Noellet  a  good  deal, 
was  it  not  so?" 

"Yes.  And  the  house  is  not  very  lively,  I  can 
tell  you,  Melie.  Father  hardly  speaks  at  all  now. 
Mother  cries  when  we  are  alone  with  her.  Jacques 
is  off  to  be  a  soldier.  Sister  Marie  is  still  the  cheer- 
fullest  of  us  all." 

"And  why  is  that?" 

"I  think  on  account  of  Louis  Fauvepre." 

"How,  Louis  Fauvepre?" 

"Yes.  He  has  been  a  great  many  times  to  La 
Geniviere  to  ask  if  we  have  not  any  ploughs  that 
want  mending.  First  of  all,  as  you  may  know,  it 
is  not  the  custom  for  blacksmiths  to  frequent  the 
farms  like  that;  and  then,  whenever  he  does 
come,  Marie  is  sure  to  be  there." 

"Really?" 

"And  I  need  not  say  that  it  is  not  the  ploughs 
he  looks  at.  He  does  not  even  throw  a  glance 
toward  me.  It's  all  for  Marie.  And  I  suppose  she 
finds  it  consoling,  for  she  is  always  in  a  good 
humour  the  days  that  he  has  been  here." 

"Just  hark  to  the  child!"  said  M41ie,  laughing. 

"So  I  was  right  to  bring  you  the  letter?" 

"Yes,  darling." 

"And  you  are  happy?" 

"Yes,  quite." 

"Good-by,  Melie." 

And  Antoinette  went  back  up  the  ladder.  Yes, 
she  was  happy,  was  Melie  Rainette,  and  had  no 
wish  now  to  sleep.  She  repeated  the  sentence  in 
Pierre's  letter  about  herself.  Far  off  in  the  great 
city,  where  there  were  so  many  new  things  to  dis- 


122  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

tract  him,  to  have  preserved  the  remembrance  of  a 
poor  girl  like  herself,  and  to  have  sent  her  word  of 
it,  was  that  not  something  wonderful,  something 
well  fitted  to  give  pleasure?  Her  heart  beat  joy- 
ously. She  felt  buoyant.  She  was  seized  with  a 
longing  to  go  out  and  walk  in  the  sun,  in  the  light. 
The  weaving  seemed  harder  work  to  her  than 
usual,  and  the  thread  broke.  A  light  breeze  that 
had  stolen  in  through  the  open  trap-door  blew 
round  her  caressingly. 

At  the  same  moment  Melie  remembered  that 
there  was  a  cap  belonging  to  Mere  Mitard,  of 
which  she  had  been  mending  the  lace,  that  ought 
to  have  been  taken  back  to  her  before.  The  ex- 
cuse was  enough,  and  it  was  no  time  before  Melie 
was  out  in  the  street  and  had  reached  her  destina- 
tion. On  Mere  Mitard's  window-sill  stood  a  pot 
of  the  old-fashioned  flower  known  as  " pyramids," 
now  only  grown  by  good  peasant  women.  This 
one  was  of  a  beautiful  violet  colour,  as  was  most 
suitable  for  a  widow,  and  in  full  blossom  from  top 
to  bottom  of  the  stem;  it  swayed  backward  and 
forward  in  the  wind,  in  spite  of  the  stick  to  which 
it  was  fastened  by  bands  of  rush.  "There  are  the 
flowers  saying  good-day  to  me  now!"  thought 
Melie,  and  she  went  in,  smiling  gayly. 

"Good-day,  pretty  one!"  said  Mere  Mitard, 
"you  do  look  cheerful!  One  would  think  the 
spring  was  coming.  What's  happened  to  you?" 

"I  have  brought  back  your  cap,"  answered  the 
weaver's  prudent  daughter. 

"There  was  no  such  hurry  about  it;  but  you 
wanted  to  stretch  your  legs  a  bit,  wasn't  that  it?" 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  123 

As  she  spoke  Mere  Mitard,  whose  rheumatism 
seldom  allowed  her  to  leave  the  easy-chair  of 
straw  in  which  she  was  now  sitting,  was  fingering 
the  lace  and  examining  it  through  her  whitehorn- 
rimmed  spectacles.  It  had  to  be  well  looked  at 
where  it  had  been  mended,  turned  over,  held  up 
to  the  light,  to  see  if  every  thread  was  right,  and 
that  took  time.  When  she  raised  her  head  in  the 
slow  manner  peculiar  to  old  people,  she  perceived 
that  Me*lie  was  standing  in  front  of  her  looking 
toward  the  garden  window,  her  eyes  lost  in  the 
distance.  For  some  minutes  she  watched  her, 
while  the  girl  continued  to  gaze  at  something  far 
away  in  the  landscape,  or  in  life,  with  the  same 
entranced  look  on  her  face.  Then  a  kind,  grand- 
motherly smile  passed  over  Mere  Mitard's  face. 

"Melie,  dear  girl,"  she  said,  "there  is  surely 
something  the  matter  with  you?" 

"With  me,  Mere  Mitard?" 

"Yes,  something  with  the  heart.  You  will  not 
tell  me,  but  I  know  it  for  all  that." 

Melie  turned  her  eyes,  so  clear,  so  bright,  that 
a  warm  light  seemed  to  shoot  from  them  toward 
the  old  woman. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  she  said. 

"Ah,  my  dear  girl,  I  have  been  young  myself." 

At  these  words  Melie  broke  into  her  sweet, 
ringing  laugh,  there  in  that  room  into  which  so 
much  youth  and  happiness  seldom  entered.  There 
was  no  mockery  in  it;  it  was  just  Melie's  way  of 
saying  neither  no  nor  yes,  and  of  making  her 
escape.  The  neighbours  wondered  what  could 
make  so  serious  a  young  woman  show  her  white 


124  "THIS,   MY   SON'1 

teeth  like  that  as  she  ran  out  of  the  house,  while 
Mere  Mitard  dragged  herself  to  the  door  and 
looked  after  her,  giving  queer,  sympathetic  little 
shakes  and  nods  of  her  head. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


PIERRE'S  mother  undertook  to  answer  his  letter, 
Antoinette  being  the  actual  scribe.  It  was  full  of 
tenderness  and  affectionate  words,  and  of  little 
maternal  counsels  regarding  his  manner  of  life. 
Mere  Noellet  also  sent  her  ungrateful  son  an  ac- 
count of  anything  new  and  interesting  to  herself 
that  she  knew  about,  showing  that  she  still  looked 
upon  him  as  a  child  of  La  Geniviere,  and  that  she 
forgave,  although  no  forgiveness  had  been  asked. 
She  did  not  touch  on  the  question  of  money,  hav- 
ing neither  the  authority  nor  the  warrant  to  do  so. 
She  wound  up  her  letter  with  the  words : 

"Do  not  leave  us  long  without  a  line  to  let  us 
know  at  least  how  you  are.  Perhaps  we  should 
not  understand  what  you  wish  to  do,  and  you  are 
right  to  hide  it  from  us.  But  to  be  assured  you 
are  in  health,  and  to  see  your  handwriting,  be- 
lieve me,  my  Noellet,  is  some  little  consolation." 

Letters,  in  fact,  from  Pierre  did  reach  La 
Geniviere  during  the  late  autumn  and  following 
winter.  Short  and  commonplace  as  they  were, 
full  only  of  vague  hopes  which  proved  that  he 
was  still  in  the  same  condition  of  discomfort  and 
uncertainty  as  at  first,  they  were  eagerly  looked 
for  by  his  mother  and  sisters,  and,  after  being 

125 


126  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

read  till  they  were  nearly  known  by  heart,  were 
put  with  their  envelopes  among  other  precious 
objects  in  the  cubboard. 

The  father  never  read  them,  although  he  was 
able  to  some  extent  to  decipher  handwriting;  he 
learned  the  contents  of  them  from  the  others,  with- 
out giving  any  sign  of  either  pleasure  or  disap- 
proval. The  name  of  the  son  who  had  lost  his 
place  at  the  hearth,  by  insulting  his  own  race  and 
the  land  that  had  fed  it,  never  passed  his  lips. 
Only  when  he  saw  the  women  whispering  to- 
gether he  would  ask,  "  What  are  you  talking  about 
there?  Has  there  been  another  letter?"  And 
then,  in  a  few  words,  they  would  communicate 
the  meagre  intelligence  they  had  received.  He 
pretended  not  to  be  aware  that  one  or  other  of 
them  always  answered  Pierre's  letters,  which  they 
hid  as  far  as  they  could,  confiding  them  to  some 
school-boy  to  post,  in  fear  that  the  father  might  be 
angry  at  their  taking  them  to  the  town  themselves 
and  then  forbid  all  correspondence. 

This  deep-seated  resentment  on  the  part  of  the 
master  of  the  house  had  introduced  a  feeling  of 
constraint  between  the  members  of  the  family 
which  had  been  before  unknown.  The  days 
passed  sadly,  and  the  evenings  were  gloomy;  out- 
side the  winter  was  melancholy  also.  It  rained 
incessantly.  The  same  cold,  cutting  wind  blew 
unceasingly,  driving  endless  mists  over  the  dead 
trees  and  the  ploughed-up  fields.  At  times  the 
mad,  tumbling  masses  of  cloud  rushed  together, 
and  became  mingled  and  confused  as  they  rolled 
and  wheeled;  at  others  the  whole  sky  was  covered 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  127 

with  one  uniform  sheet  of  gray,  an  immense  ex- 
panse of  mists  that  had  gathered  from  the  distant 
seas,  and  from  which  the  rain  fell  uninterruptedly 
for  weeks  at  a  time.  The  wheat,  just  appearing 
above  the  ground,  turned  yellow.  The  roads, 
soaked  with  wet,  made  traffic  of  all  kinds  difficult. 
The  Evre  overflowed  its  banks,  and,  turned  into 
a  torrent,  destroyed  or  carried  away  whole  corners 
of  the  fields. 

The  lugubrious  winter  brought  a  double  anxiety 
to  the  Noellets — anxiety  for  their  threatened  har- 
vests, anxiety  on  account  of  Jacques,  their  second 
son,  who  had  been  carried  off  from  them  by  con- 
scription. The  separation,  so  much  dreaded  by 
all  concerned,  had  taken  place  in  November.  The 
whole  family,  assembled  at  the  gate  of  a  field 
along  the  high  road  of  Fief-Sauvin,  had  seen 
Jacques,  a  tricoloured  ribbon  in  his  hat,  drive  off 
in  a  covered  cart  full  of  singing,  tipsy  recruits. 

Since  that  day  his  mother  had  hardly  known 
how  to  live,  knowing  her  boy  far  away  from  her 
at  Angers,  in  a  strange  town.  She  thought  of 
him  day  and  night,  wondering  that  this  child,  who 
had  always  seemed  to  hold  a  lesser  place  than  his 
elder  brother  at  La  Geniviere,  had  yet  left  such 
a  void  by  his  departure.  The  truth  was  that 
Jacques,  besides  being  good,  was  also  weakly,  and 
a  very  little  knocked  the  strength  out  of  him. 
He  had  had  a  large  share  of  pity.  And  now  that 
she  could  no  longer  spend  herself  upon  him,  the 
mother  was  troubled,  and  worried  herself  inces- 
santly. She  thought  with  uneasiness  of  the  long 
marches,  for  he  so  soon  got  out  of  breath;  of  the 


128  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

drill  he  would  be  put  through,  of  his  having  to  fag 
for  his  companions,  and,  above  all,  of  the  bad 
language  and  bad  example  that  might  be  the  ruin 
of  her  Jacques.  Hideous  dreams  tormented  her 
at  night;  of  the  hospital,  or  the  fighting  at  Ton- 
quin,  of  which  there  was  so  much  talk;  some- 
times she  thought  she  saw  a  soldier  like  her  son 
fall  wounded  with  a  little  red  spot  near  his  heart. 
She  tried  to  lift  him  in  her  arms,  so  as  to  carry 
him  to  the  wood,  where  there  was  an  ambulance; 
but  he  was  too  heavy  and  fell  back,  the  bright 
blood,  derived  from  her,  flowing  from  him  in 
streams.  Then  she  cried  aloud,  imagining  that  she 
heard  the  moan  of  the  dying  man.  And  her  hus- 
band, waking,  would  say,  "Our  boy,  wife,  has  not 
yet  taken  the  field ;  he  is  in  his  bed,  sleeping  more 
soundly  than  you  are."  Although  less  nervously 
constituted  than  his  wife,  and  slower  and  soberer 
in  thought,  at  bottom  his  heart  was  troubled  with 
the  same  anxiety,  and  he  felt  a  keen  resentment 
against  those  who  immediately  and  indirectly  had 
caused  Jacques  to  be  taken  from  them;  he  bore 
a  grudge  against  Napoleon  whose  legendary  name 
meant  for  him  conscription;  against  the  Govern- 
ment, against  the  army  doctor  who  had  declared 
his  son  fit  for  service,  and  a  deeper  grudge  still 
against  Pierre,  whose  ambition  had  been  the  ruin 
of  everybody,  including  his  brother,  whose  ex- 
emption he  might  have  procured. 

Yes,  it  was  a  long  and  unhappy  winter  for  the 
whole  family. 

It  was  toward  its  close  that  Marie  one  morning 
was  busy  heating  the  oven  in  the  bakehouse  which 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  129 

stood  at  the  end  of  the  house  close  on  the  road. 
She  had  left  the  door  open.  She  stood,  her  figure 
lit  up  by  the  flame  that  was  licking  the  door  of  the 
oven,  waiting  until  the  last  fagot  should  be  con- 
sumed before  dividing  the  coals  and  drawing  them 
to  the  front,  preparatory  to  placing  the  bread  hi 
the  oven.  A  large  white  apron  covered  her  from 
her  shoulders  downward.  Suddenly  a  shadow 
fell  across  the  floor  of  the  bakehouse.  Marie 
turned  round.  She  showed  no  surprise  at  the 
sight  of  Louis  Fauvepre,  who  stood  not  daring  to 
enter,  nor  manifested  any  shame  at  her  attire, 
which  was  her  livery  of  labour,  and  said: 

"Oh,  it  is  you." 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle  Marie,"  replied  the  black- 
smith, "I  came  because — I  had  business,  you 
see " 

"Another  plough?" 

"Oh  no!" 

He  appeared  preoccupied,  which  she  was  quick 
to  perceive. 

"Was  your  business  to  do  with  me?"  she  asked. 

"No,  Mademoiselle  Marie;  but  I  saw  you  in 
here  heating  the  oven,  so  I  just  looked  in  to  say 
good-morning." 

"Well,  you  have  said  it  now,  Monsieur  Fau- 
vepre, and  I  thank  you.  For  whom  are  you 
looking?" 

"Maitre  Noellet." 

"You  will  find  him  near  the  stables." 

The  farmer  was  not  far  off.  He  was,  as  his 
daughter  had  said,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  court- 
yard near  the  stables,  emptying  a  cart  of  cabbages 


130  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

for  the  cattle.  His  blouse  was  streaming  with  wet 
from  the  water  that  ran  off  the  fleshy,  ribbed, 
violet-hued  leaves,  as  he  seized  large  armfuls  of 
them  and  threw  them  into  an  empty  stall.  He 
dried  his  hand  on  the  back  of  his  blouse,  and  held 
it  out  with  a  friendly  gesture  to  the  young  man. 

"  Good-morning,  Louis  Fauvepre,"  he  said. 
"What  brings  you  here?" 

"A  piece  of  news  I  have  for  you." 

"About  whom?" 

"About  Jacques." 

Never  being  idle,  Julien  Noellet  had  from  force 
of  habit  returned  to  his  work,  but  he  now  stopped 
short  in  what  he  was  doing. 

"I  was  at  Angers  yesterday,"  continued  Louis, 
"and  I  saw  him.  He  has  suffered  terribly  at 
leaving  you,  poor  boy." 

"It  was  unjust  of  them,  was  it  not,  Louis  Fau- 
ve"pre,  to  take  him  from  me?" 

"I  think  so,  indeed,  and  he  will  never  make 
a  soldier." 

"They  treat  him  harshly,  is  that  it?" 

"Rather." 

"And  he  is  ill,  maybe?" 

"Yes,  Mattre  Noellet." 

"I  thought  so  at  once.    In  bed?" 

"No." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  for  with  us  if  we  take  to  our 
beds —  Is  he  very  ill,  Louis  Fauvepre?  Hide 
nothing  from  me;  tell  me  all.  His  mother  will 
not  overhear  us  here." 

He  trembled,  waiting  for  the  reply. 

"Why,  no,"  said  the  young  man,  affecting  to 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  131 

think  that  the  farmer  was  over  anxious;  "I  do 
not  think  that  it  is  anything  serious.  A  neglected 
cold,  fatigue,  and  chiefly  his  trouble  of  mind — 
that  is  what  is  the  matter  with  him.  He  has  a 
slight  cough.  The  best  cure  for  him  would  be  to 
have  his  mother  with  him.  I  promised  that  she 
should  go  and  see  him." 
"You  did  well,  my  boy;  she  shall  go." 
Then  they  both  became  silent,  each  trying  to 
hide  from  the  other  the  end  to  which  their  sad 
thoughts  were  tending.  The  farmer  sighed  deeply 
and  pressed  Louis'  hand  in  his.  As  the  black- 
smith's son  went  across  the  courtyard  to  regain 
the  footpath  the  farmer  followed  him  with  his 
eyes,  thinking  how  handsome  and  loyal  he  was; 
and  how  tell  of  that  other  thought  from  which  he 
turned  away  as  from  a  temptation?  He  envied 
the  blacksmith  Fauvepre. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


IT  was  decided,  therefore,  that  Perrine  Noellet 
should  go  to  Angers. 

She  started  after  dark,  Antoinette  and  Marie 
accompanying  her,  while  the  farm-servant  drove 
them  across  the  sleeping  Mauges.  Each  with  her 
head  wrapped  in  a  handkerchief  tied  under  the 
chin,  they  jolted  along  in  the  tilted  cart,  be- 
numbed, and  falling  asleep  during  the  slow  ascents 
of  the  hills,  and  waking  up  in  the  fresher  current 
of  air  when  La  Roussette  resumed  her  trot;  and 
so  the  three  women  arrived  at  last  before  day- 
break at  Chemille  along  the  Yallais  road,  and 
thence  started  by  the  first  train  to  Angers. 

The  moment  they  alighted  at  the  station,  and 
while  looking  round  them  at  their  unknown  sur- 
roundings, they  took  the  handkerchiefs  off  their 
heads  and  arranged  the  strings  of  their  caps  as 
they  were  in  the  habit  of  doing  on  Sundays  when 
they  reached  the  town.  Then  they  made  their 
way  to  the  infantry  barracks,  the  two  girls,  in 
their  countrified  alpaca  dresses  of  yellow  brown, 
in  front,  and  the  mother,  as  usual  in  black,  a  few 
steps  behind,  carrying  on  her  arm  a  large  basket 
of  provisions  which  she  intended  to  take  back  full 
of  haberdashery,  remnants  of  stuff,  and  a  host  of 
other  things  that  she  had  been  coveting  for 
months  past.  It  did  not  take  them  long  to  reach 

132 


''THIS,   MY   SON"  133 

the  barracks.  It  was  close  to  the  station,  situated 
in  a  square  where  five  streets  met,  which  was 
crowded  with  groups  of  inquisitive  loafers.  On 
either  side  of  the  gate  there  was  an  assemblage  of 
boys,  of  forwarding  agents  stopping  to  look  on,  of 
men  out  of  work,  and  old  soldiers  with  medals  on 
their  breasts;  while  within  the  regiment,  in  full 
uniform,  was  drawn  up  in  three  columns,  the  men 
with  their  arms  grounded,  standing  immovable. 
Evidently  something  or  somebody  was  expected. 

But  Mere  Noellet,  who  knew  nothing  of  military 
orders,  found  her  way  through  the  crowd  up  to  the 
sergeant  of  the  guard,  and,  addressing  him,  said : 

"Monsieur  le  Sergeant,  I  wish  to  see  my  son 
who  is  ill." 

"What  is  his  name?"  asked  the  sergeant,  whose 
mouth  stretched  to  his  chin-strap. 

"Jacques — Jacques  Noellet." 

"Second  of  the  third.  He  is  in  his  place.  When 
the  review  is  over.  The  company  is  already  rid- 
ing in,  as  you  see.  Clear  the  way!  Clear  the 
way!" 

And,  indeed,  as  he  spoke  a  detachment  of 
troops,  headed  by  their  band,  was  seen  turning 
the  corner  of  the  street ;  they  were  bringing  in  the 
regimental  colours.  The  tri-coloured  silk  banner, 
taken  from  its  usual  covering,  was  advancing 
half  unfurled,  shining  in  the  morning  sun.  A  flash 
of  light  gleamed  from  its  gold  fringes.  It  passed 
in  a  whirlwind  of  dust  and  shouting.  The  escort 
poured  into  the  barrack-yard,  and  took  up  the 
position  to  the  right  appointed  for  them,  while 
the  sub-lieutenant,  who  carried  the  colours,  sup- 


134  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

ported  by  two  sergeants,  remained  with  his  back 
to  the  troops,  facing  the  Colonel.  His  gloved 
hand  grasped  the  staff.  All  tongues  were  hushed ; 
all  eyes  were  turned  toward  him. 

The  Colonel's  voice  of  command  broke  the  si- 
lence: "Baionnette  au  canon!"  The  command- 
ing officers  repeated,  "Baionnette — on!" 

There  was  a  wheeling  about  of  glittering  steel 
on  a  level  with  the  men's  heads.  Again  the  Colo- 
nel's voice  was  heard,  "Shoulder  arms!  Present 
arms!"  The  commanding  officers  once  more  re- 
peated, ' '  Shoulder  arms !  Present  arms ! "  A  far- 
ther shifting  of  arms,  and  then  each  man  stood 
with  a  gray  barrel  barring  his  chest.  The  regiment 
saluted.  Then  the  Colonel  cried,  "The  flag!"  as 
he  at  the  same  time  lowered  his  sword,  and  the 
music  broke  into  a  loud  flourish — bugles,  flutes, 
brass  basses,  nickel-silver  bomb- vessels — all  hymn- 
ing the  glory  of  the  flag  which  floated  gently  in 
the  air,  as  if  stirred  by  the  thrill  of  pride  that  ran 
through  the  crowd. 

Pierre's  mother  and  sisters  had  stationed  them- 
selves in  the  front  row  beside  the  gate,  and  as  the 
regiment  filed  past  on  its  way  to  the  field  of  man- 
oeuvres they  sought  eagerly  for  Jacques.  But  the 
soldiers  were  all  so  much  alike,  dressed  in  their 
red  and  blue,  and  they  marched  too  quickly. 
There  was  hardly  time  to  scan  the  faces  in  a  single 
line.  How  was  it  possible  to  recognize  one's  dear- 
est friend  in  this  moving  mass?  Marie  and  Mere 
Noellet  soon  gave  up  trying,  dazzled  by  the  fa- 
tiguing succession  of  bright  colours;  but  An- 
toinette never  turned  her  eyes  away  for  a  mo* 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  135 

ment.  She  loved  her  brothers  with  a  deep,  sweet 
affection;  she  was  their  favourite  sister.  She  was 
determined  to  see  Jacques.  And  now,  just  as 
about  half  the  men  had  marched  past,  she  heard 
an  adjutant  close  to  her  say  in  a  low  voice: 

"No.  7,  do  you  want  three  days'  confinement 
in  the  barracks  to  teach  you  how  to  carry  your 
rifle?" 

She  looked  in  the  direction  indicated  by  the 
adjutant's  gesture  and  by  the  movement  of  the 
men's  heads,  and  saw  the  man  thus  addressed. 

Her  heart  sank  within  her.  No.  7,  with  the 
pink  colour  still  on  his  face,  although  it  had 
grown  much  thinner,  with  large  hollow  blue  eyes, 
bent  shoulders,  and  a  general  look  of  suffering, 
with  nothing  of  the  soldier  about  him  but  his 
uniform  and  his  obedience,  was  Jacques,  the 
brother,  the  dearly-loved  son,  he  whom  the 
father  was  still  looking  forward  to  have  as  his 
help  in  the  future. 

How  he  had  changed! 

"Poor  lad!"  said  a  boy  near  her.  "He  won't 
last  much  longer." 

She  turned  quickly  aside.  Her  eyes  overflowed 
with  tears.  Her  mother  and  Marie  had  not  seen 
or  heard  anything.  They  were  talking  to  each 
other.  Soon  the  three  women  were  being  borne 
along  by  the  crowd  that  followed  in  the  wake  of 
the  regiments.  Along  the  roads,  along  the  boule- 
vards planted  with  trees,  they  were  pushed  for- 
ward, in  spite  of  themselves,  to  the  beat  of  the 
music  that  was  still  playing  ahead  of  them.  Now 
and  again  Mere  Noellet  would  say:  "It's  funny 


136  "THIS,    MY   SON" 

that  my  Jacques  should  be  there  and  I  not  see 
him!  But  I  want  to  see  him  very  much!" 

Marie  replied  with  an  absent-minded  smile, 
seemingly  lost  in  thought  of  something  far  away, 
and  of  purely  personal  interest. 

And  Antoinette,  generally  the  gayest  of  the 
party,  remained  a  little  in  the  rear,  grieved  to  the 
bottom  of  her  soul,  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
rank  where  No.  7,  whom  she  knew  by  the  sun- 
burnt nape  of  his  neck,  was  marching. 

It  was  not  until  two  hours  after  the  close  of  the 
review  that  Mere  Noellet  was  able  to  see  and  em- 
brace her  child.  She  took  him  with  her  to  a  little 
restaurant  near  the  barracks,  made  him  sit  down 
facing  her,  ordered  the  best  of  everything  for  him, 
or  to  be  more  correct,  everything  that  he  liked. 
She  watched  him  eat  without  touching  a  thing 
herself,  absorbed  in  her  contemplation  of  him, 
from  which  she  only  roused  heself  to  ask : 

"Will  you  have  anything  else?  Nuts?  You 
used  to  like  them.  Coffee?  You  must  take  ad- 
vantage of  my  being  here,  my  Jacques,  it's  a 
holiday  to-day." 

She  thought  him  looking  sadly  pale,  and  was 
even  more  painfully  struck  by  the  dull  hollow 
sound  of  his  voice.  And  how  prettily  he  used  to 
sing  when  at  La  Geniviere.  From  time  to  time, 
too,  he  paused  in  his  talking  or  eating  to  give 
a  hoarse  cough,  and  she  felt  her  own  chest  racked 
by  the  mere  echo  of  it.  After  each  fit  of  coughing 
he  looked  at  her  and  smiled,  with  the  same  smile 
and  the  same  soft  blue  eyes  that  she  knew  so  well. 
For  as  regarded  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  barrack 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  137 

life  had  made  no  change  in  him;  he  was  just  as 
artless  and  simple  as  of  old,  just  as  anxious  not 
to  give  trouble  to  others,  just  as  brave  in  face  of 
misfortune.  He  did  not  complain,  did  not  even 
speak  about  himself.  All  his  talk  was  turned  to 
La  Geniviere,  to  Pierre,  of  whom  he  wanted  to 
know  as  much  as  possible;  he  inquired  after  the 
sowing,  after  the  short  clover  that  the  rain  might 
have  spoiled;  after  his  pet  oxen,  Vermais  and 
Fauveau;  and  after  La  Roussette.  Was  she  still 
as  good  a  trotter?  Did  the  man  look  after  her 
properly?  Did  he,  above  all,  see  that  a  cloth  was 
thrown  over  her  when  she  came  home  hot  from 
ploughing  or  from  market.  It  would  be  a  terrible 
pity  if  she  were  to  be  ill. 

He  also  asked  for  news  of  Louis  Fauv6pre, 
turning  as  he  spoke  toward  Marie,  who  was  sit- 
ting beside  him,  and  adding : 

"I  saw  him  one  day;  he  spoke  to  me  about 
certain  things." 

The  things  were  evidently  not  of  a  very  mys- 
terious nature,  for  Marie  understood  and  blushed, 
and  then  was  overcome  with  shyness  at  hav- 
ing shown  her  feelings  before  the  assembled 
company. 

"He  is  a  fine,  handsome  lad,"  continued 
Jacques,  still  banteringly;  "if  there  was  any  girl 
among  my  acquaintances  wishing  for  a  husband, 
I  should  advise  her  to  take  him." 

Marie  turned  a  little  redder,  and  Jacques,  not 
quite  knowing  how  to  carry  on  the  subject,  fin- 
ished up  with: 

"Then  he  is  quite  well?" 


138  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mere  Noellet.  "And  you,  my 
Jacques?  You  have  a  cough,  I  hear." 

"Yes,  only  a  slight  one.  I  think  I  have  a  cold 
on  my  chest." 

"And  when  did  you  get  that?" 

"I  think  it  began  in  December,  after  one  of  our 
marches.  We  were  wet  to  the  skin,  and  I  was 
very  cold,  but  there  was  no  means  of  warming 
myself.  I  get  feverish  sometimes  at  nights." 

"Is  it  often  so?" 

"No,  not  every  night — only  when  they  work 
us  too  hard." 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see  a  doctor?" 

"The  Major?  No!"  replied  the  soldier,  shaking 
his  head;  "if  we  go  to  him  with  any  complaint 
he  puts  us  under  lock  and  key — I  would  rather 
keep  away  from  him." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  it  is,  all  the  same," 
said  his  mother,  whose  wrinkled  lids  fluttered 
more  rapidly  than  usual.  "But  perhaps  you  will 
get  better  when  the  weather  turns  a  little  warmer." 

"Yes,  mother,  I  am  sure  I  shall,"  he  said  with 
a  weakly  smile  as  he  pressed  her  hand.  "I  feel 
better  already  for  having  seen  you." 

"And  it  has  done  me  good,  too,  my  dear  boy — 
only,"  she  continued  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"if  the  fever  gets  worse  you  must  write  to  me." 

Jacques  turned  aside,  looking  a  little  ashamed, 
and,  half  laughing,  he  replied : 

"I  have  tried  to,  but  I  have  forgotten  how  to 
write." 

They  left  the  restaurant,  and  spent  the  after- 
noon walking  about  together.  The  weather  had 


"THIS,   MY   SON'3  139 

turned  mild  for  them.  Jacques  walked  between 
his  mother  and  Marie  and  continued  without 
ceasing  to  talk  of  his  home.  He  had  left  off 
coughing.  The  evening  was  sweet  and  fine. 
Mere  Noellet  parted  from  her  son  feeling  some- 
what less  anxious  than  when  she  had  arrived. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


A  FEW  weeks  after  Mere  Noellet's  visit  Jacques 
was  sent  home  on  sick  leave.  He  was  let  off  duty 
at  last,  but  it  was  late  in  the  day.  Death  had 
him  already  in  his  grip,  as  every  one,  except  his 
mother,  who  still  cherished  some  hope,  sadly  be- 
lieved. She  was  determined  to  save  him  by  any 
manner  of  means  and  at  any  cost.  With  a  re- 
newal of  the  activity  and  tenderness  of  the  young 
mother,  she  nursed  him  untiringly,  fighting  from 
hour  to  hour  of  the  day  and  night  to  keep  him 
from  the  terrible  enemy  that  was  continually  ly- 
ing in  wait.  She  might  be  seen  every  afternoon 
in  the  roads  near  the  farm  with  her  son's  arm  in 
hers,  supporting  the  tall,  stooping  figure  of  her 
boy,  who  wheezed  with  every  breath.  They  gen- 
erally chose  the  hill,  whence  across  the  wooded 
slopes  could  be  seen  the  fields  lying  along  the 
Evre,  and  the  expanse  of  sky,  so  blue  at  this  sea- 
son of  the  year,  and  feel  the  warm,  soft  breezes 
that  swayed  and  bent  the  long  grass. 

"We  will  sit  down  here  awhile,  my  Jacques," 
she  would  say.  "You  are  feeling  a  little  better, 
I  think.  Try  and  breathe  the  air;  see,  it  is  nice 
and  sunny."  And  the  poor  boy  would  do  his  best 
to  inhale  the  invigorating  breezes  which  had 
formerly  seemed  to  give  him  fresh  life.  But  the 
lungs  refused  to  expand ;  the  little  air  that  he  was 

140 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  141 

able  to  draw  in  caused  him  acute  pain,  and  the 
cough  returned,  nearly  suffocating  him,  while  his 
forehead  became  bathed  in  sweat.  Then  the 
mother,  drawing  the  sufferer  to  her  bosom,  would 
comfort  him,  saying:  "Never  mind,  my  Jacques, 
you  are  better  all  the  same;  you  have  only  had 
three  fits  of  coughing  this  morning." 

He  was  not  a  difficult  patient  to  nurse,  and  he 
never  complained.  At  times,  when  he  was  a  little 
easier,  the  gentle,  innocent  smile  of  old  days 
would  return  to  his  blue  eyes,  which  were  now 
paler,  and  always  held  tears  which  never  fell. 
Then  he  would  talk  a  little,  in  broken  sentences, 
as  short  as  his  breathing,  in  which  recollections  of 
the  past  were  mingled  with  plans  for  the  future, 
when  he  should  be  well  again,  and  of  warm  ex- 
pressions of  love  for  those  belonging  to  him,  and 
for  the  home  which  he  had  found  again.  Pierre's 
name  was  often  on  his  lips  at  such  moments,  and 
if  his  father  chanced  to  be  absent  he  would  get 
some  one  to  read  him  one  of  the  letters  kept  in  the 
large  cupboard,  or  would  himself  recall  things 
that  had  happened  in  the  past,  tales  of  old  school- 
boy pranks,  which  always  ended  with  the  same 
words:  "I  was  so  fond  of  my  Pierre!" 

Soon,  however,  the  walk  on  the  hillside  had  to 
be  given  up.  Too  weak  to  bear  the  fatigue  of 
even  so  slight  an  effort,  the  invalid  now  only  left 
his  room  for  the  courtyard  of  the  farm.  It  was 
an  immense  court,  full  of  life.  His  father  passed 
through  it  with  his  horses  and  carts,  his  cartloads 
of  green  fodder.  The  spring  sun  was  shining  on  the 
tiles.  Chickens,  pigeons,  and  ducks  pecked  and 


142  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

cooed  and  squabbled  in  every  corner.  His  mother 
had  had  a  little  bench,  with  arms  and  back,  put 
up  for  him  beneath  the  vine  along  the  sunny  wall 
beside  the  house-door.  Whenever  the  day  prom- 
ised to  be  fine  she  brought  out  pillows,  and  there 
Jacques  would  lie,  surrounded  with  the  sounds  of 
home,  watched  over  by  those  belonging  to  him, 
and  almost  happy. 

Antoinette,  as  often  as  she  could,  brought  a 
chair  and  sat  to  do  her  sewing  or  crochet-work 
beside  him.  Those  were  his  most  enjoyable  hours. 

"Antoinette,"  said  Jacques  one  day  toward 
the  end  of  April,  "Antoinette,  I  am  dying." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  replied  the 
girl,  leaving  off  her  work  in  her  distress.  "You 
know  how  miserable  you  make  me  when  you  say 
such  dreadful  things!  See  what  beautiful  weather 
we  are  having  now.  Little  by  little  you  will  get 
better." 

"No,  I  am  going  to  die,"  repeated  Jacques.  ' '  You 
must  not  say  so  to  mother,  but  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"Do  you  want  to  make  me  cry  and  send  me 
away,  Jacques?" 

"Of  course  not.  I  should  not  have  said  this  to 
you  if  I  had  not  had  a  request  to  make." 

"What  is  it  you  want?" 

Jacques  lifted  his  head  with  difficulty,  looking 
to  see  that  no  one  was  listening  from  the  window 
above. 

"I  want  to  see  Pierre  once  more,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice. 

"It  is  impossible;  what  would  father  say? 
You  know  how  he  drove  him  away!" 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  143 

"I  want  to  see  him  all  the  same/'  continued  the 
sick  boy,  growing  excited. 

The  pink  patch  on  his  cheek  turned  purple; 
a  fit  of  coughing  seized  him,  and  for  some  minutes 
he  could  not  speak.  He  leaned  his  head  down 
away  from  his  sister,  and  murmured,  exhausted, 
his  eyes  half-closed: 

"Let  me  die,  then.  It  was  the  only  thing  I 
wished  for,  and  you  will  not  help  me!" 

"  Jacques,"  said  Antoinette,  who  had  risen  and 
was  leaning  over  him,  "I  would  ask  for  nothing 
better  myself,  as  you  know  well.  But  would 
Pierre  himself  be  able  to  come,  and  would  he 
wish  to  do  so?" 

"He  will  come!"  replied  Jacques,  again  greatly 
agitated.  "I  tell  you  he  will  come!" 

"Well,  do  not  distress  yourself  any  more,  my 
Jacques,"  said  Antoinette,  as  she  passed  her  hands 
over  his  moist  forehead;  "I  promise  you  I  will 
write." 

He  raised  himself  a  little,  and  looked  his 
thanks  with  his  large  eyes  that  were  now  quiet 
and  shining. 

"It  is  a  secret,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"Only  known  to  us  two,"  responded  Antoinette. 
Then  she  went  into  the  house. 

And  he,  left  outside,  seemed  not  to  be  aware  of 
being  alone,  but  lay  quietly  during  the  remainder 
of  the  afternoon,  under  the  vine  and  the  shade  of 
the  tiled  roof,  not  once  coughing,  as  if  in  a  rapture 
of  thought. 

His  mother,  as  she  passed,  thought  he  was  better. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


MELIE  RAINETTE  had  awakened  early  that  morn- 
ing in  her  large  white  bed.  It  was  still  dark  when 
she  opened  her  eyes,  and  the  rain  was  falling 
heavily  on  the  roof,  which  had  been  the  cause  no 
doubt  of  her  waking  with  a  start.  "What  a 
pity,"  she  thought  to  herself;  "I  was  having  such 
a  beautiful  dream."  In  it  she  had  seen. resplend- 
ent skies,  transparent  dawns,  flowery  landscapes, 
roses,  palm  trees,  ferns,  with  rays  of  light  for 
leaves,  prodigious  and  luminous  vegetation,  and 
angels  moving  in  its  midst.  They  seemed  to  be 
in  some  far  distant  and  infinite  space.  And  One 
like  a  flame  separated  himself  from  the  others 
and  grew  visibly  larger.  Melie  could  distinguish 
his  wide-spread  immovable  wings,  his  golden  hair, 
and  his  face.  He  came  close  to  her,  and  as  he 
stood  by  the  bed  he  suddenly  smiled,  like  a  flower 
that  opens  all  at  once.  "He  reminded  me  rather 
of  Pierre,"  she  murmured  to  herself;  "what  curi- 
ous things  these  dreams  are!" 

The  warm,  heavy  rain  was  running  down  the 
roof  with  a  monotonous  murmur  that  more  than 
a  louder  sound  disturbed  the  silence  of  the  night, 
making  its  way  between  the  mosses,  and  the  other 
parasitic  plants  that  grew  in  clumps  among  the 
slates,  till  it  separated  into  two  channels,  one  of 
which  fell  into  a  jar,  and  the  other  on  to  a  slanting 

144 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  145 

stone  stuck  into  the  earth.  Each  had  a  voice  of 
its  kind,  but  the  tones  of  the  two  were  different. 
The  voice  of  the  first  seemed  to  say,  "Jesus,  my 
God,  how  they  have  drunk!  How  they  have 
drunk!"  while  the  other  replied:  "They  will 
flower  better!  They  will  flower  better." 

"Yes,"  she  thought,  "the  house-leeks  are 
drinking  on  the  roof;  they  were  almost  dried  up 
yesterday.  It  is  so  long  since  it  rained.  They 
must  have  grown  green  again  by  this  time — plants 
without  even  a  sprinkling  of  earth  round  their 
roots — and  they  only  want  a  shower  of  rain ;  and 
there  they  are  full  of  flower,  and  the  roof  scented 
with  them.  I  am  somewhat  like  them;  I  have 
days  of  dryness,  when  I  think  I  am  going  to  fade 
and  die  away;  and  then  there  are  others " 

The  violence  of  the  rain  increased,  beating 
against  the  walls,  the  roof,  and  the  ground  round 
the  house,  while  the  two  streams  kept  up  their 
incessant  trill.  "How  they  have  drunk,"  said  the 
earthen  jar.  "They  will  flower  better,"  replied 
the  stone. 

In  the  midst  of  this  deluge  Melie  fancied  that 
she  caught  the  sound  of  a  footstep  on  the  road. 
The  thought  occurred  to  her,  "supposing  it  was 
he."  She  sat  up,  leaning  on  her  hands,  listening. 
But  no,  there  was  no  one  passing.  A  few  solitary 
sparrows,  perched  in  the  holes  of  the  wall,  were 
chirping  in  spite  of  the  downpour.  A  streak  of 
daylight  stole  through  the  cracks  of  the  shutters 
and  through  the  keyhole.  Melie  rose  and  opened 
the  window  and  began  to  dress. 

Then  gentle  knocks  against  the  garden-door 


146  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

were  heard  through  the  silence  of  the  house,  and 
a  voice  that  Melie  would  have  known  among  a 
thousand  others — a  voice  she  often  heard  in 
memory — called: 

"Melie,  Me-lie!" 

She  made  haste  to  fasten  her  dress,  and,  with- 
out waiting  even  to  put  on  her  shoes,  ran  out  of 
the  room. 

"Me"lie,  open  the  door!"  called  the  voice  again. 
"I  am  wet  through." 

The  girl  drew  the  bolt,  and  stood  aside  against 
the  wall  as  Pierre  Noellet  entered,  passing  in  front 
of  her. 

"Excuse  me  for  begging  shelter  of  you  at  this 
hour  of  the  morning,"  he  said,  "but  I  saw  from 
the  road  that  your  window  was  open,  and  I  thought 
you  would  take  me  in.  It  is  impossible  to  stay 
outside." 

Melie  had  remained  standing  at  the  door  as 
Pierre  walked  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  where, 
after  taking  off  his  waterproof,  which  was  stream- 
ing with  wet,  he  threw  it  on  a  chair,  and  then  went 
up  to  a  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece,  in  which  he 
gazed  at  himself  a  second  or  two,  passed  his  hand 
through  his  hair,  which  was  cut  short  over  his 
head,  before  turning  and  speaking  to  Melie,  who 
up  to  that  moment  had  not  uttered  a  word.  She 
looked  at  him  in  mute  astonishment.  His  free- 
and-easy  manners,  his  elegantly  cut  coat,  the  pin 
stuck  in  his  cravat,  the  look  of  confidence  and 
cleverness  on  his  face,  were  all  revelations  to  her 
of  the  complete  transformation  that  had  taken 
place  in  the  old  friend  of  her  youth.  He  was  a 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  147 

different  man  altogether;  and  as  she  looked  at 
him,  she  was  moved  by  a  mingled  feeling  of  ad- 
miration, pleasure,  and  fear.  Whence  had  he 
come,  and  whither  was  he  going  at  this  hour 
through  the  rain?  She  stood  without  moving, 
leaning  against  the  side  of  the  door,  while  he 
stood  also  looking  at  her  in  the  gray  light  of  the 
early  morning. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  exclaimed  at  last,  "How  you 
have — "  and  then  she  broke  off,  for  he  smiled 
kindly,  aware  of  what  she  wished  to  say. 

"How  I  have  changed,  you  mean?" 

Without  answering  she  went  up  to  him  as  he 
stood  by  the  fireplace,  and  kneeling  down,  began 
to  light  the  fire.  She  waited  till  the  heather  and 
wood,  which  had  been  drying  there  for  a  long  time, 
had  sent  a  bright  flame  up  the  chimney,  and  then 
rose,  and  telling  Pierre  Noellet  to  take  a  chair,  she 
sat  down  herself  beside  him  on  a  lower  one.  She 
did  not  dare  lift  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"You  are  changed,  too,"  he  said. 

"For  the  worse,  perhaps?  I  have  grown  old 
these  last  eight  months." 

"Not  for  the  worse;  quite  the  contrary." 

She  felt  his  gaze  upon  her,  and  modestly  drew 
back  her  naked  foot  under  the  cover  of  her  skirt. 

"I  have  had  great  trouble,  you  know,  and  it 
would  be  strange  if  my  face  showed  no  traces  of 
it." 

"What  farther  trouble?  Has  work  been  slack?" 

"No;  but  my  father  is  dead." 

"Yes,  I  heard  about  that  from  Antoinette." 

"I  nursed  him  for  five  weeks;   it  cost  a  great 


148  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

deal  of  money.  After  his  death  I  had  his  debts  to 
pay  off.  You  would  hardly  believe  how  I  have 
had  to  work." 

"My  poor  Melie,  your  life  has  always  been  a 
hard  one." 

"I  do  not  grumble  about  the  work;  far  from  it, 
I  am  strong,  fortunately.  The  unhappiness  to  me 
is  the  being  all  alone,  with  no  one  to  see  or  speak 
to,  and  no  sound  of  any  kind  but  what  one  makes 
oneself.  At  times,  do  you  know,  I  even  feel 
afraid.  But  I  do  not  know  what  makes  me  always 
talk  about  myself — one  ought  not  to  do  that. 
The  truth  is,  I  have  not  yet  got  over  my  surprise, 
so  you  must  forgive  me.  Why  are  you  here? 
where  have  you  been  travelling  from  through  the 
night?" 

"I  have  come  from  Paris  to  see  Jacques." 

"He  is  very  ill,"  said  Melie. 

"I  know  it,  and  that  is  why  I  have  hurried  to 
get  here.  I  got  as  far  as  Chalonnes  last  evening 
by  the  train,  and  there  I  found  a  miller's  cart, 
which  carried  me  to  Poiteviniere.  Sooner  than 
put  up  for  the  night  at  the  inn,  I  decided  I 
would  rather  do  the  remainder  of  the  journey  on 
foot.  It  was  beautifully  fine  when  I  started,  but 
it  began  to  pour  in  torrents  before  I  reached 
the  hill  up  to  Villeneuve.  What  a  storm  it 
has  been!" 

He  was  squeezing  the  water  out  of  the  legs  of 
his  trousers,  which  smoked  as  they  neared  the 
flame. 

"Your  father  let  you  in,  then?"  said  Melie. 

"He  let  me  in!"  said  Pierre,  rising  from  his 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  149 

stooping  posture  and  looking  at  Me*lie  with  an 
ironic  expression  on  his  face  which  distressed  her. 
"You  do  not  know  him!  I  am  proscribed,  ban- 
ished! He  drove  me  from  the  house,  and  I  must 
ask  pardon  from  him  before  I  shall  ever  be  al- 
lowed to  enter  it  again." 

"Well,  and  why  not?" 

"One  only  asks  pardon  when  one  has  been  in 
the  wrong!"  replied  Pierre  stiffly.  "No,  I  have 
had  no  permission  from  my  father.  It  was  An- 
toinette who  secretly  sent  me  word."  Then,  sud- 
denly resuming  his  accustomed  amiability,  and 
smiling  like  the  pupil  of  old  days  under  Abbe* 
Heurtebise,  he  continued:  "It  was  even  ar- 
ranged, Melie,  that  you  should  help  us." 

"In  what  way?" 

"As  I  said,  I  cannot  present  myself  at  La  Geni- 
viere;  and  so  we  thought,  Antoinette  and  I,  that 
you  would  not  mind  going  and  telling  her  when 
I  had  arrived,  and  then  I  will  linger  in  a  field,  or 
road  near,  it  does  not  matter  where,  and  you  two 
can  bring  Jacques  to  me,  as  if  you  were  helping 
him  out  for  a  walk." 

"Is  he  strong  enough,  poor  boy?"  said  Me*lie. 

She  had  drawn  back  and  turned  to  the  window, 
reddening  a  little  as  she  spoke.  It  was  growing 
lighter;  there  was  a  sound  of  shutters  being 
opened  along  the  neighbouring  street,  and  the 
distant  rumble  of  carts,  and  Melie  was  beginning 
to  feel  uncomfortable  at  the  thought  of  having 
taken  Pierre  under  her  roof  at  this  early  hour. 

She  had  not  thought  of  that  at  first  in  the  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  of  seeing  him  again,  and  some 


150  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

pity  had  mingled  with  her  feelings  at  the  thought 
of  him  in  the  pouring  rain. 

''Listen!"  she  said.  The  rivulet  to  the  right 
was  singing  again,  "They  will  flower  the  better!" 
but  the  tones  were  more  broken,  a  sign  that  the 
storm  was  passing  away.  Before  Pierre  had  had 
time  to  notice  her  discomfiture,  Melie,  having 
made  up  her  mind,  said  in  her  pleasant  way: 
"We  cannot  go  out  just  yet;  but  in  ten  minutes' 
time  the  rain  will  be  over,  and  then  I  will  help 
you  as  you  wish." 

"I  knew  you  would  say,  'Yes.'  I  know  you  so 
well!  When  we  talk  about  you  in  Paris,  we  have 
never  any  ill  to  say;  for  we  do  speak  about  you, 
Melie." 

"With  whom  do  you  speak?" 

"With  the  Laubriets." 

"You  see  them,  then?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  I  did  not  dare  go  and  call  on 
them,  as  you  understand;  but  one  day  I  met 
Monsieur  Hubert  in  the  street,  and  he  held  out 
his  hand.  'Where  are  you  lodging,'  he  asked,  'and 
what  are  you  doing?  Why  have  you  given  no  sign 
of  life?  It  is  very  wrong  of  you.  Come  and  see 
me  to-morrow."3 

"See  what  it  is  to  be  learned!"  she  exclaimed, 
with  an  admiring  glance.  "And  you  went  as  invi- 
vited?" 

"Certainly.  I  went  more  than  once,  and  now 
little  Pierre  Noellet  is  received  by  the  lords  of 
Landehue,  of  whom  he  stood  formerly  in  such 
awe.  He  dares  to  speak  to  them.  He  is  greeted 
as  a  friend.  And  this  last  month,  since  I  have 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  151 

been  on  a  paper,  I  have  often  spent  the  evenings 
with  them." 

"You  are  a  journalist?" 

"Yes,  I  am  on  the  Don  Juan" 

"You  must  be  growing  rich!" 

"Not  yet,  Melie,  I  am  very  poor  as  yet." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise,  and 
without  speaking.  How  could  he  be  poor  as  he 
said  and  yet  be  so  well  dressed? 

"My  words  astonish  you.  Because  I  write  for 
a  paper  and  no  longer  dress  as  I  used  when  at 
Fief-Sauvin,  you  think  I  must  be  well  off." 

"Yes." 

"If  you  knew  the  extreme  poverty  I  was  in  at 
first!" 

"You,  in  great  poverty?" 

"I  was  for  more  than  six  months  without  any 
employment  at  all,  trying  in  vain  to  find  even  the 
humblest  post  in  some  office,  or  teaching  work  of 
some  kind,  without  any  success.  No  one  knew 
me,  and  no  one  wanted  me.  The  start  was  a 
rough  one,  I  can  assure  you." 

"And  I,  here,  without  the  slightest  idea  of  such 
a  thing!" 

"Fortunately  some  one  had  pity  on  me,  and 
took  me  under  his  protection,  and  restored  my 
confidence  in  life  which  had  nearly  forsaken  me." 

"I  guess  it  was  Monsieur  Laubriet!" 

"No — an  old  professor  who  was  lodging  in  the 
same  house  as  myself — Monsieur  Chabersot.  Bear 
his  name  in  mind,  Melie,  for  it  is  that  of  a  most 
excellent  man.  When  my  own  family  deserted 
me,  he  helped  and  delivered  me.  Thanks  to  him, 


152  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

I  got  on  the  staff  of  the  Don  Juan.  But  do  not 
run  away  with  the  idea  that  I  am  making  a  fort- 
une. I  hardly  earn  enough  to  cover  my  expenses, 
and  I  have  urgent  debts  to  the  amount  of  fifteen 
hundred  francs." 

''Fifteen  hundred  francs!"  said  Melie,  who  had 
never  in  her  life  owned  such  a  sum. 

"I  was  obliged  to  borrow." 

"How  shall  you  be  able  to  pay  them?" 

"My  father  owes  me  as  much." 

"That  is  true.  You  wrote  to  your  father  for 
the  money  last  October." 

"Will  you  believe  that  I  have  never  had  a  word 
of  reply  from  him?  But  he  must  give  me  answer 
of  some  kind,  for  Loutrel,  who  lent  the  sum  to  me, 
will  not  wait  any  longer.  So  much  the  worse,  and 
I  shall  let  him  do  what  he  advised  me  long  ago." 

"Are  you  going  to  bring  farther  trouble  on  your 
father,  Pierre?" 

"Oh  no,  Melie,  it  is  nothing.  Do  not  disturb 
yourself." 

"If  I  had  the  money,"  she  said,  "I  would  give 
it  to  you  at  once!" 

Tears  had  started  to  Melie's  eyes.  All  that  she 
had  heard,  and  all  that  she  guessed,  made  her 
heart  sink  within  her.  And  how  much  more  there 
must  be  of  which  she  could  know  nothing,  and 
what  a  stranger  she  had  become  to  the  life  of  the 
old  companion  of  her  childhood!  Pierre  guessed 
her  thoughts,  and  said,  smiling : 

"You  are  a  brave  girl,  Melie;  I  have  always 
known  you  kind  and  ready  to  help." 

"You  say  that  to  please  me!" 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  153 

"No,  I  say  it  sincerely,  and  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  again." 

"Really?" 

"Really!" 

It  was  Melie's  turn  to  smile. 

"And  I  too,  Pierre,  am  glad,"  she  said. 

"Do  you  remember  the  time  when  I  was  a 
child?" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  remember  it." 

"We  were  like  brother  and  sister  together." 

"I  used  to  see  you  go  by  every  day." 

"That  was  the  best  time  after  all,  perhaps, 
Melie." 

She  longed  to  say  "yes,"  but  contented  herself 
with  only  thinking  it,  and  letting  him  read  the 
thought  in  her  eyes,  which  now  were  bright  with 
happiness  and  showed  no  tears.  She  rose  and  put 
aside  the  window  curtain.  Not  a  cloud  left !  Here 
and  there  the  blue  sky  was  still  veiled  by  the  light 
mists  that  were  floating  slowly  away. 

"The  rain  is  quite  over,"  she  said.    "Come!" 

She  put  on  her  Sunday  wooden  shoes  on  ac- 
count of  the  rain-soaked  ground,  and  followed 
Pierre,  who  went  out  first  and  opened  the  garden- 
door.  He  paused  a  moment,  struck  with  the 
beauty  of  the  outside  world.  The  flowers  and 
grasses,  the  tiniest  and  humblest  plant,  everything 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  renewed  life  afterHhe  rain, 
expanding  and  lifting  their  heads,  and  scattering 
such  a  variety  of  scents  that  it  was  intoxicating 
merely  to  inhale  the  air.  The  great  rosemary 
bush  seemed  to  have  grown  bigger  still,  and  in  the 
exuberance  of  its  rejoicing  sap,  to  wish  to  crush 


154  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

the  two  hedges  that  supported  its  flowered 
branches.  On  the  farther  side  the  young  yellow 
shoots  of  the  oak  tree  were  turning  red  in  the 
morning  sun.  All  the  accustomed  sounds  were 
beginning  to  be  heard  as  the  country  awoke  to  a 
feeling  of  youth  again.  Pierre  listened  to  the 
voices  that  had  been  his  lullabies  as  a  child.  Light 
and  happiness  reigned  on  every  side. 

"What  will  the  people  in  the  town  think,"  said 
Melie,  "when  they  see  us  walking  together?" 

"That  we  are  as  good  friends  as  ever,"  re- 
sponded Pierre,  "which  is  true." 

They  crossed  the  garden.  At  the  farther  end 
was  a  footpath  which  ran  behind  the  town  and  led 
to  La  Geniviere.  Melie  and  Pierre  walked  side  by 
side,  bathed  in  the  morning  freshness,  and  in  si- 
lence. Melie  was  happy.  She  walked  slowly,  so 
as  not  to  arrive  too  quickly  at  their  destination, 
secretly  looking  at  their  mingled  shadows  which 
were  thrown  against  the  bank  of  the  road  as  they 
passed  along.  She  hardly  gave  a  thought  to  the 
sad  meeting  for  which  she  was  going  to  prepare 
the  way.  A  song  of  triumph,  longing  to  burst 
forth,  was  singing  within  her.  Would  not  a  day 
come  when  she  would  be  walking  thus,  side  by 
side  with  him,  in  a  bride's  dress,  followed  by  a 
train  of  friends?  To  herself  she  acknowledged  that 
he  perhaps  loved  her.  How  handsome  and  tall 
and  proud  he  was!  She  did  not  dare  lift  her  eyes 
to  look  at  him,  but  she  had  a  divine  consciousness 
of  it. 

At  the  turn  of  the  path  Pierre  caught  her  by 
the  arm.  They  had  reached  La  Geniviere.  M£lie 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  155 

looked  at  him,  suddenly  aroused  from  her  dreams. 
Ah,  assuredly  Pierre's  thoughts  had  been  very 
different  ones  to  hers.  His  face  looked  hard  and 
careworn.  The  sight  of  the  barn,  which  hid  the 
house  from  them,  had  awakened  in  him  no  feeling 
but  one  of  bitter  resentment.  He  was  uneasy  at 
the  thought  of  this  surreptitious  return  to  the 
paternal  farm,  and  his  eyes  went  wandering  awhile 
over  the  adjourning  fields. 

"Melie,"  he  said,  leaning  toward  her,  his  voice 
choked  with  emotion,  "you  said  Jacques  was  not 
able  to  walk  far." 

"He  can  no  longer  walk  alone." 

"Then  I  will  wait  for  him  here." 

He  pointed  to  the  door  of  the  barn  which 
opened  on  to  the  road  that  crossed  the  footpath. 

"Here?"  replied  Melie,  hesitating.  "So  near 
the  house?" 

"Well?" 

"I  don't  know — but — supposing  your  father 
were  to  meet  you?" 

"My  father  is  willing  to  let  beggars  sleep  in  his 
barn!"  replied  Pierre.  "Do  not  be  afraid:  I  will 
not  set  a  foot  under  his  roof.  Go  now,  Melie." 

"And  your  mother?"  she  said  inquiringly. 

"Do  not  let  her  know  I  am  here.  Of  what  use 
are  farther  scenes  and  tears,  since  I  will  not  give  in 
and  do  not  intend  to  stay.  And,  besides,  I  have 
not  come  to  see  the  living  ones.  Go  and  fetch 
Jacques,  that  I  may  be  off  again  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." ' 

They  emerged  from  the  footpath,  and,  turning 
to  the  left,  went  as  far  as  the  end  of  the  barn. 


156  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

Pierre  went  inside  and  took  his  place  among  the 
beams,  and  poles,  and  barrel-hoops,  which  were 
there  kept  in  store.  A  little  farther  on  stood  a  rick 
of  last  year's  hay,  forming  a  precipitous  wall 
where  it  had  been  cut  away.  Melie  turned  the 
corner  of  the  wall  and  gave  a  low  cry. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  house,  standing  under 
the  spreading  branches  of  the  vine,  that  looked  as 
if  cut  out  of  emerald  as  they  glistened  with  rain 
and  sun,  was  the  farmer  himself.  He  was  looking 
toward  the  open  valley,  where  everything  was 
bursting  forth  with  joy  and  youth,  taking  count 
of  the  weather  as  was  his  daily  morning  custom. 
As  he  turned  away  his  gaze,  a  farm-servant  with  a 
sickle  passed  before  him.  The  farmer  followed 
him  with  his  eyes  with  a  look  of  dejection,  sighed, 
and  stepped  into  the  courtyard.  Melie  saw  him 
get  over  a  cross-barred  gate  which  stood  at  the 
end  of  the  stable,  and  walk  away  past  some  trees 
bordering  a  field. 

She  ran  toward  the  house.  When  she  reap- 
peared a  few  minutes  later  she  was  supporting 
Jacques  on  one  side,  while  Antoinette  held  him  up 
on  the  other.  The  poor  boy,  bent  and  shrunk 
with  illness,  looked  quite  small  beside  them. 
Fever  was  slowly  consuming  his  strength,  but  the 
delight  at  seeing  Pierre  again  had,  for  the  mo- 
ment, revived  his  energy.  He  took  long  steps  as 
if  he  were  running,  although  utterly  unable  even 
to  stand  upright  without  support;  a  painful  smile 
— for  he  was  never  now  free  from  pain — but  still 
a  smile,  was  on  his  swollen  lips.  His  feet  slipped 
and  stumbled,  growing  weaker  with  every  step, 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  157 

but  still  he  smiled  as  if  health  and  life  were  await- 
ing him  at  the  end  of  this  journey  of  a  hundred 
paces. 

"My  Pierre!"  he  exclaimed,  when  he  reached 
the  barn. 

Pierre  embraced  him  without  speaking.  He 
could  not  at  first  master  his  feelings,  so  overcome 
was  he  at  the  sight  of  his  brother's  terrible  condi- 
tion, and  he  held  him  for  some  minutes  clasped  to 
his  breast,  while  he  struggled  to  drive  back  his 
tears. 

"Thank  you  for  coming  all  this  distance." 

"If  it  had  been  any  one  else,  they  would  have 
sent  for  me  in  vain,"  replied  Pierre.  "The  others 
have  driven  me,  or  allowed  me  to  be  driven  away. 
But  you,  you  are  my  very  youth;  you  were  the 
only  one  who  went  with  me  when  I  had  to  leave." 

"And  I,  too,"  said  Jacques  feebly,  "am  leaving 
for  a  long  journey,  and  for  a  long  time.  You 
think  me  looking  ill,  do  you  not?" 

"A  little  weak  and  thin,"  said  Pierre. 

"Do  not  try — then — I  know  it  is  all  over  for 
me.  All  I  want  you  to  tell  me  is  what  you,  who 
will  continue  to  live,  are  going  to  do ;  what  is  go- 
ing to  become  of  you?  It  makes  me  uneasy,  do 
you  understand?  It  was  in  great  part  for  that 
reason  that  I  begged  Antoinette " 

His  harsh,  rattling  cough  checked  his  further 
words.  At  last  it  ceased,  and  Pierre  sat  down  be- 
side him,  and  began  talking  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 
Jacques  listened,  responding  with  a  nod,  a  look, 
a  word.  They  had  so  often  talked  together  like 
this  over  their  plans,  under  the  shadow  of  the 


158  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

caves  beside  the  Evre,  as  they  watched  the  cows. 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  those  past  days  haunted 
the  poor  invalid.  A  look  of  peace  came  into  his 
eyes,  turned  toward  the  raftered  roof  of  the  bam, 
followed  by  an  expression  of  admiration,  of  child- 
ish astonishment,  which  was  replaced  again  by 
one  of  dissatisfaction  and  of  passing  anxiety. 

"No,"  he  said,  at  one  point  of  the  conversation, 
"you  must  ask  pardon  of  them;  I  do  not  say  to- 
day, since  you  do  not  wish  it,  but  when  I  am " 

Pierre's  answer,  whatever  it  may  have  been,  was 
inaudible  to  Melie  and  Antoinette,  who  were  stand- 
ing on  either  side  of  the  door.  A  murmur  of  voices, 
a  few  disjointed  words,  was  all  the  sound  that 
reached  them.  They  were  on  guard,  agitated  by 
their  mingled  feelings,  distress  at  the  thought  of 
the  sad  farewells  that  were  taking  place  behind 
them,  and  fear  that  the  farmer  should  appear. 
But  not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  in  the  fields  around. 
Not  a  sound  issued  from  the  farm.  By  which  way 
would  he  be  likely  to  come?  From  the  farther 
side  of  the  barn?  By  the  garden  way,  where  the 
sound  of  his  step  would  be  deadened  in  the  soft 
newly  turned  earth?  But,  no,  he  had  passed  and 
had  seen  nothing,  and  must  be  now  at  some  distant 
point  of  the  domains,  for  Pierre  and  Jacques  had 
been  talking  for  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour,  unheed- 
ing of  the  time.  They  never  paused  in  their  talk, 
for  the  two  brothers,  after  months  of  separation 
and  on  the  eve  of  being  parted  for  ever,  had  many 
things  to  say. 

Me"lie,  however,  began  to  get  uneasy,  but  felt 
that  it  would  be  cruel  to  interrupt  them.  Antoi- 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  159 

nette,  feeling  equally  anxious,  was  beginning  to 
regret  that  she  had  not  taken  her  mother  into  their 
confidence.  And,  since  everything  seemed  quiet, 
should  she  not  go  and  tell  her  that  Pierre  was  here 
before  he  went  off  again?  It  would  not  take  a 
minute  to  run  to  the  house  and  say  to  her: 

"Come,  come,  Pierre  is  here;  it  is  he.  I  tell 
you,  he  himself.  Come!" 

Just  as  she  was  on  the  point  of  darting  off, 
Jacques  became  suddenly  more  excited,  and  began 
speaking  in  a  louder  voice.  His  poor  weak  body 
was  quivering  all  over.  He  tried  to  raise  himself 
on  his  hands,  while  his  eyes  dilated  with  anguish. 

"No,  no,  my  Pierre,"  he  cried;  "you  cannot 
think  of  doing  such  a  thing.  You  are  deceiving 
me;  you  cannot " 

"But  I  do  think  of  doing  so,"  replied  Pierre; 
"I  have  done  so  for  years  past " 

"Then  give  up  the  idea;  say  that  you  will  give 
it  up.  It  will  bring  trouble  upon  you.  For  my 
sake  who  am  about  to  die " 

"I  cannot." 

"It  is  madness!" 

"It  is  my  life,  Jacques!" 

The  sick  man  uttered  a  cry  of  suffering,  which 
seemed  to  set  the  old  barn  itself  shuddering. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  "it  is  all  such  pain  to  me!" 

His  strength  gave  way,  his  hands  failed  to  sup- 
port him  any  longer,  and  he  fell  back  stretched  at 
full  length  upon  the  ground  with  closed  eyes  and 
clenched  teeth. 

At  that  moment  Antoinette  called  out: 

' '  Father  is  coming !    Father  is  coming ! " 


160  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

And  she  fled,  out  of  her  mind  with  fear. 

It  was  indeed  the  farmer.  He  had  run  to  the 
spot  on  hearing  Jacques'  cry  and  now  suddenly 
rose  up  before  them  in  full  daylight.  Melie  drew 
back  to  let  him  pass. 

Frowning  in  his  effort  to  pierce  the  semi- 
twilight  of  the  barn,  he  caught  sight  of  Pierre  rising 
from  his  seat  with  Jacques  lying  stretched  at  his 
feet.  The  muscles  of  his  face  stiffened.  He  looked 
like  an  old  Chouan  in  the  midst  of  fight.  He 
walked  to  the  farther  end  of  the  barn  with  such 
a  terrible  expression  of  countenance  that  Pierre 
drew  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  wall  and  rushed 
out. 

"Come,  Melie,"  he  cried,  "or  he  will  kill  us." 

Julien  Noellet  made  no  effort  to  stop  him.  He 
looked  down  on  his  unfortunate  son  lying  in  the 
dust,  fearing  that  he  was  dead.  He  knelt  and  put 
his  hand  to  the  boy's  heart;  it  was  still  beating; 
Jacques  had  only  fainted.  Then  this  strong, 
violent-tempered  man  lifted  him  up  in  his  arms 
as  gently  as  if  he  were  a  woman  and  carried  him 
out  of  the  barn. 

Melie  and  Pierre  had  stopped  in  their  flight  at 
the  entrance  to  the  footpath,  which  was  some 
twenty  paces  off,  and  they  now  stood  motionless, 
half  hidden  by  the  angle  of  the  hedge.  They  did 
not  know  what  to  do,  and  had  sought  shelter  there 
in  their  first  moment  of  fright  to  await  what  might 
happen. 

The  father  saw  them,  and  held  out  the  body  of 
his  son  that  they  might  have  full  view  of  his  poor 
face,  his  dangling  legs,  and  hanging  lifeless  hands. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  161 

"Look!"  he  called  to  Pierre,  "look  and  see  what 
you  have  done  to  your  brother!" 

And  his  anguish  was  so  keen  and  undisguised 
that  Pierre  was  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  it.  He 
turned  and  strode  back  down  the  path,  hanging 
his  head. 

"And  you,  Me*lie — you  came  with  him,  then!" 
continued  Julien  Noellet.  "You,  too,  have  be- 
trayed me!  Ah,  now  I  understand;  it  is  you  who 
put  all  those  ideas  into  his  head — you  who  have 
taken  him  from  me!  Go  and  rejoin  your  friend!" 

She  had  remained  near  the  hedge,  unable  to 
speak  or  move.  As  she  heard  the  farmer  address 
her  in  this  way,  she  felt  as  if  her  heart  had  received 
a  blow.  To  be  driven  away  from  La  Geniviere! 
To  be  accused  like  this !  No,  she  had  not  betrayed 
him !  She  would  defend  herself.  She  had  been  a 
little  weak,  but  there  was  nothing  else  of  which 
she  could  accuse  herself. 

But  she  was  so  taken  aback  that  at  first  she 
could  not  open  her  mouth,  and  when  at  last  she 
recovered  her  self-possession,  the  farmer  had  dis- 
appeared. He  had  carried  his  still  unconscious 
son  back  to  the  house.  She  might  still  follow  him, 
explain  her  conduct  to  him,  and  obtain  his  pardon. 
And  at  first  she  thought  of  doing  so.  But  then 
that  would  be  to  desert  Pierre,  to  let  him  go  away 
alone  after  having  brought  him  here.  Pierre  must 
already  have  gone  some  distance. 

For  a  second  or  two  she  hesitated  between  Pierre 
and  La  Geniviere,  between  all  her  old  friendships 
and  the  man  she  loved.  It  was  a  heart-rending 
struggle,  but  love  gained  the  mastery,  and,  turning 


162  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

her  back  on  the  farm,  she  ran  to  overtake  Pierre. 
When  the  two  found  themselves  together  again, 
on  a  level  with  the  house  behind  Melie's  garden, 
no  word  of  reproach  escaped  her  lips.  She  had 
already  ceased  to  think  of  herself. 

"My  poor  friend,"  she  said,  "it  has  been  a  sad 
time  for  you." 

Pierre  had  been  waiting  for  her  where  the  path 
was  hidden  between  its  deep  banks.  As  Melie 
spoke  he  lifted  his  head,  too  proud  to  let  her  see 
how  greatly  he  was  affected,  and  replied  in  the 
haughty  and  ironical  tone  which  was  familiar  to 
him: 

"You  see  now  what  my  father  is — unjust  and 
violent." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Go  at  once,  and  this  time  for  ever." 

"Forever,  Pierre?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  shall  never  return  again  as 
long  as  I  live,  unless " 

He  left  his  sentence  unfinished  and  turned  to 
where,  through  an  opening  in  the  hedge,  the  roof 
and  shuttered  windows  of  Landehue  were  visible. 
Then  he  added: 

"I  thank  you,  Melie,  for  what  you  have  done. 
I  am  only  afraid  that  my  father  will  now  hate  you 
as  he  hates  me." 

"I  will  bear  that  for  your  sake,"  she  said  softly. 

She  put  her  foot  on  the  step  of  beaten  earth, 
on  to  which  the  garden-gate  opened,  with  the  in- 
tention of  returning  to  the  house,  but  as  she  pushed 
open  the  little  wicket,  she  half  turned,  and  said 
sadly: 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  163 

"Since  I  shall  never  see  you  again,  tell  me  at 
least  what  made  your  brother  faint?  What  had 
you  said  to  cause  him  so  much  excitement?" 

"In  the  condition  he  is  in,  it  does  not  require 
much  to  upset  him." 

"No;  answer  me.  I  shall  have  no  peace  of 
mind  when  you  are  gone,  trying  to  find  out  your 
secret;  it  will  be  a  trouble  to  me  for  a  long  time 
to  come." 

"I  have  a  secret,  it  is  true,  Melie;  I  told  it  to 
Jacques:  I  am  in  love  with  some  one." 

"Well,"  she  said — and  a  passing  light  flashed 
into  her  eyes — "what  did  he  see  in  that  to  trouble 
him?" 

"The  one  I  love  does  not  love  me;  that  is  the 
trouble." 

She  gave  her  head  a  wise  shake,  and  answered: 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  so." 

"Is  she  a  princess,  then?" 

"No." 

"Do  I  know  her?" 

"Yes,  very  well." 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  smiling  in  spite  of  her- 
self, though  she  would  have  wished  to  hide  the 
smile  that  was  like  a  confession,  "if  you  love  her 
well,  and  were  to  tell  her  so,  there  is  a  chance,  you 
may  be  sure,  that  you  would  find  she  loved  you  in 
return." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Melie?" 

"Yes,  I  do."  ' 

He  went  up  to  her  quickly  and  took  her  by  the 
hand,  carried  away  by  the  overpowering  thought 


164  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

even  of  this  possibility  of  hope,  looking  as  hand- 
some as  a  youth  can  look. 

' '  You  really  think  so  ?  Perhaps  you  have  already 
guessed?  It  is  the  whole  secret,  the  whole  strength 
of  my  life,  a  love  of  so  long  standing  that  I  think 
I  must  have  been  born  with  it.  All  I  do  is  in  the 
hope  of  rising  to  her  level,  of  making  myself 
worthy  of  her.  The  mere  thought  that  she  might 
be  able  to  love  me,  as  you  say,  intoxicates  me, 
and  compensates  me  for  everything  else.  You 
are  right,  Melie,  I  will  tell  you  her  name." 

"Yes,  do  so!" 

"But  you  will  help  me,  for  it  is  in  your  power  to 
do  so?" 

She  smiled  again  by  way  of  answer,  as  if  to  say : 
I  shall  indeed  be  able  to  help  you,  since  the  woman 
you  love  is  not  a  princess.  I  know  her  very  well, 
and  she  whom  you  loved  so  long  time  back  is 

He  drew  her,  happy  and  trembling,  to  him, 
leaned  his  head  toward  hers  till  the  two  nearly 
touched,  so  that  none  but  she  might  hear  the 
whispered  name,  and  said: 

' '  Madeleine  Laubriet ! ' ' 

Then  he  tore  himself  away,  and  ninning  down 
the  footpath,  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


MELIE,  after  a  night  spent  in  tears,  had  risen 
rather  later  than  usual.  She  had  just  finished 
putting  her  room  in  order  when  a  man-servant 
from  Landehue  thrust  his  frizzled  head  and  a 
yellow-striped  velvet  waistcoat  through  the  open 
window. 

" Mademoiselle  Me*lie,"  he  said,  "the  master  and 
his  family  returned  to  Landehue  last  evening,  and 
Mademoiselle  Marthe  begs  that  you  will  come  up 
this  afternoon  to  help  her  arrange  her  flower- 
baskets." 

He  went  off  without  waiting  for  Melie's  answer, 
for  she  always  accepted  her  invitations.  It  was 
a  regular  thing  for  her,  and  in  general  a  great 
pleasure  to  go  and  spend  an  afternoon  at  Lande- 
hue during  the  fine  weather.  She  was  clever  with 
her  fingers,  and  skilled  in  delicate  needlework,  and 
possessed  a  natural  quickness  of  eye  and  refinement 
of  taste  which  rendered  her  an  invaluable  auxiliary 
on  many  occasions.  Whether  it  was  to  make 
a  ruche,  to  mount  a  ribbon-bow,  or  even  to  im- 
provise a  dress  for  a  charade,  Melie  was  as  ready 
at  these  tasks  as  at  arranging  flowers  for  the  dinner 
table  or  bouquets  to  wear.  The  Mesdemoiselles 
Laubriet  had  only  to  send  her  word  and  she  obeyed 
their  summons  with  alacrity,  delighted  at  the 
thought  of  a  few  hours  of  elegance  and  liberty. 

165 


166  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

But  to-day  she  had  no  heart  for  such  things. 
She  sat  down  near  the  window,  and,  letting  her 
head  fall  on  her  hands,  began  to  cry  again.  She 
had  so  many  peaceful,  happy  hours,  so  much  lost 
courage,  so  much  departed  affection  to  weep  for! 
Poor  little  dream  of  love !  She  had  lived  on  it  for 
so  long  past,  and  had  hardly  been  conscious  of 
the  place  it  held  in  her  heart.  It  had  grown  with 
a  wild  rapidity,  like  seeds  that  fall  into  a  deep 
cave  and  there  take  root  in  the  midst  of  the 
vacant  spaces,  and  creep  and  grow  to  an  inordi- 
nate height,  till  at  last  they  reach  the  light;  a 
bud,  a  pale  flower,  is  all  we  see  of  the  plant  from 
outside,  but  within  the  darkness  is  full  of  luxu- 
riant vegetation.  Everything  was  destroyed, 
everything  was  dead,  for  Pierre  did  not  love  her; 
he  loved  another.  No,  she  would  certainly  not  go 
to  Landehue.  To  see  the  one  whom  Pierre  loved 
— no,  indeed,  to  let  something  of  her  suffering  be 
guessed!  This  Madeleine  Laubriet,  why  should 
she  want  to  take  away  the  happiness  of  the  poor? 
She  had  so  much  of  her  own  without  interfering 
with  that  of  others.  But  it  was  the  way  of  the 
world — all  the  happiness  for  some,  all  the  misery 
for  others.  Up,  slave,  and  get  to  your  work. 
There  is  no  time  for  tears.  Go  and  take  your  seat 
on  the  old  stool  with  its  ragged  straw  edges,  work 
the  frame,  tire  your  feet  on  the  pedals,  let  body 
and  soul  become  one  with  the  machine,  and  stay 
there  in  the  damp  atmosphere  of  the  cellar  till  you 
begin  to  fall  asleep  from  exhaustion,  till  your  eyes 
can  no  longer  distinguish  the  threads,  and  on  the 
morrow  go  to  work  again,  and  the  day  after,  and 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  167 

so  continue  till  the  day  of  your  death — always 
poor,  always  alone. 

What  an  irony  of  fate! 

And  agitated  in  mind  and  body,  the  weaver  left 
her  room  and  went  down  into  the  cellar.  The  ma- 
chine began  to  creak,  and  to  move  at  an  irregular 
pace.  How  often  she  had  sat  working  in  this  same 
place!  The  wood  was  quite  polished  with  the 
friction  of  her  hand.  As  she  now  came  in  contact 
with  it  she  became  more  painfully  alive  still  to  the 
bondage  of  her  hard-worked  life,  and  her  first 
feeling  was  of  a  disgust  of  life,  a  suppressed  anger 
at  not  being  able  to  throw  off  her  yoke  of  poverty. 

For  a  long  time  she  struggled  helplessly  against 
the  trouble  that  assailed  her.  A  quick  and  in- 
voluntary glance  toward  the  old  plaster  crucifix, 
which  showed  white  amid  the  surrounding  gloom 
of  the  cellar  as  it  hung  on  the  wall  above  the  bar- 
rels filled  with  skeins  of  thread,  brought  the  col- 
our into  her  cheeks.  What  had  become  of  the 
quiet,  steady  maiden  that  had  been  held  up  as  a 
model  of  courage  and  patience?  The  Melie  of  old 
days — so  strong,  so  self-confident?  The  remem- 
brance filled  her  with  shame. 

And  then  after  a  while — is  there  some  hidden 
virtue  in  these  tools  of  daily  labour?  Has  some- 
thing from  our  hours  of  calm  passed  into  them  to 
be  given  back  to  us  one  day? — she  was  conscious 
of  feeling  better.  The  machine,  as  it  was  worked 
with  less  unwillingness,  began  to  move  with  its 
habitual  rhythm.  It  began  to  argue  with  Melie, 
and  to  represent  to  her  with  its  little  daily  clack- 
ing, that  she  was  wrong,  and  to  remind  her  how 


168  "THIS,    MY   SON" 

patient,  merry,  and  happy  it  had  known  her,  even 
in  her  poverty,  before  this  love  trouble  had  come 
upon  her. 

By  degrees  she  came  round  to  its  way  of  think- 
ing, and,  as  if  to  bestow  a  caress  on  her  faithful 
servitor,  she  began  to  handle  it  with  a  willing  ser- 
vility, while  it  grew  more  and  more  docile  under 
her  supple  hand.  And  as  she  drew  the  edge  of  the 
frame,  that  had  grown  white  with  wax  and  fric- 
tion, it  caught  the  thread  of  light  that  fell  through 
the  window  and  emitted  a  pale  ray. 

Melie  recognized  this  humble  smile  of  her  com- 
panion in  labour,  and  all  at  once  a  fresh  strength 
came  to  her,  her  will  seemed  to  recover  itself  and 
to  be  able  to  throw  off  the  weight  of  oppression 
and  cowardice.  She  paused  an  instant  in  her 
work,  and  said  half  aloud  and  slowly,  as  if  the 
machine  could  hear  her  words: 

"I  will  go  up  to  Landehue  after  all." 

And  the  brave  girl  did  in  fact  leave  the  house 
at  the  accustomed  hour,  and  started  across  the 
park.  The  weather  was  superb,  the  grass  already 
high,  the  whole  land  bright  with  springing  verdure. 
But  Melie  found  no  pleasure  in  it  all.  On  reach- 
ing Landehue  she  found  Marthe  in  one  of  the 
rooms  seated  in  front  of  a  table  covered  with  heaps 
of  flowers  and  leaves.  Madeleine  was  not  there, 
and  Melie  experienced  the  feeling  of  relief  of  which 
we  are  conscious  when  the  occasion  for  self-sacri- 
fice becomes  less  immediate.  Marthe  greeted  her 
with  her  usual  abrupt  good  temper. 

"Take  a  seat,"  she  said.  "It  is  Providence  that 
has  sent  you.  Here  have  I  been  trying  over  and 


'THIS,   MY  SON"  169 

over  again  to  arrange  my  basket  of  daisies;  I  can 
never  do  anything  with  these  wild  flowers.  You 
must  see  to  them — here,  take  them.  There,  there, 
you  may  have  them  all." 

And  as  she  spoke  she  threw  armfuls  of  daisies 
over  Melie,  till  the  latter's  beautiful  black  apron 
and  shoulders  and  cap  were  covered  with  them. 
The  latter  gathered  them  up  into  bunches,  and 
then,  with  a  taste  and  decision  that  bespoke  the 
skilled  worker,  after  cutting  the  stalks  with  a 
knife  to  the  required  length,  she  quickly  stuck 
them  one  by  one  in  the  sand  of  a  flower-stand.  It 
did  not  take  long  to  arrange  the  white  and  gold 
blossoms  till  they  curved  prettily  down  to  an  en- 
circling border  of  dark  green.  Marthe  on  her  side, 
now  occupied  with  flowers  from  the  hot-houses  or 
from  the  garden  shrubs,  was  succeeding  wonder- 
fully, the  effect  of  her  clusters  being  heavier  and 
richer,  with  less  of  quiet  grace  about  them.  She 
was  happy  in  her  grouping.  Here  the  flowers 
drooped  in  elegant  abandonment,  here  an  aigrette 
rose  above  a  dome  of  blossoms,  and  all  the  while, 
as  she  stepped  backward  and  forward  to  examine 
the  effect  of  her  handiwork,  she  was  calling  upon 
Melie  to  give  her  opinion.  There  was,  therefore, 
not  much  opportunity  for  conversation  between 
the  girls,  of  which  Melie  was  glad.  She  had  just 
summoned  up  courage  enough  to  be  there,  and 
to  arrange  the  flowers,  without  talking,  for  all  the 
while  she  was  thinking  of  him.  She  could  not  all 
at  once  rid  herself  of  that  importunate  sense  of 
recent  trouble,  of  which  we  are  all  in  turn  the  vic- 
tims, and  which  invades  the  very  thoughts  by 


170  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

which  we  had  hoped  to  escape  it,  turning  and 
quickening  them  in  some  unexpected  manner,  so 
as  to  add  to  our  torture.  The  most  commonplace 
remarks  renewed  her  sorrow.  If  Marthe  said: 
"We  had  a  storm  while  we  were  travelling,  did 
you  have  one  here?"  Melie  recalled  her  beautiful 
dream,  her  awakening  from  it,  the  haunting  song 
of  the  rain  as  it  ran  down  the  roof — "They  will 
flower  the  better."  Lies!  lies! 

A  bright,  ringing  voice  threw  an  order  to  a  serv- 
ant outside,  and  when  Me"lie  heard  this  voice  and 
the  sound  of  an  alert  foot  coming  up  the  garden- 
steps,  she  turned  as  white  as  her  daisies.  Made- 
leine Laubriet  entered  the  room.  As  Melie  watched 
her  walk  up  to  the  table  she  felt  too  dazed  to  give 
a  word  or  sign  of  recognition.  What  queenly  ele- 
gance! How  well  the  sailor-blue  dress  suited  her! 
How  proudly  the  head  rose  above  the  soft  round 
of  the  collar!  Unhappy  Melie,  the  weaver!  What 
is  your  attraction  in  comparison  to  hers?  Come 
what  may,  do  what  you  will,  the  man  who  has 
loved  her  can  never  love  you.  See  now  how  she 
advances  toward  you  with  that  patronizing  air 
which  she  assumed  the  moment  she  saw  you, 
obeying  an  instinct  of  birth  and  of  superior  edu- 
cation. 

"Why,  your  basket  is  quite  a  work  of  art,  M£lie! 
And  I  am  so  clumsy  at  this  kind  of  thing!  How 
do  you  do  it?" 

Me"lie  conquered  her  agitation,  and  only  a  slight 
unsteadiness  of  voice  betrayed  the  conflict  that 
was  taking  place  within  her.  She  answered  with 
a  word  or  two  without  leaving  off  her  work. 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  171 

Madeleine,  with  her  delicate  fingers,  began  feeling 
about  among  the  scattered  flowers,  seeking  for 
a  piece  of  Spanish  jasmine,  which  was  her  fa- 
vourite blossom.  After  a  minute  or  two  she 
said: 

"  What  dress  are  you  going  to  put  on  this  even- 
ing, Marthe?" 

Marthe  understood  that  this  question  meant, 
"What  do  you  advise  me  to  put  on?  I  want  to 
look  my  best,"  and  answered  accordingly:  " Your 
pink  dress." 

"  You  think  so?" 

"It  suits  you  well." 

"But  there  will  not  be  many  at  dinner." 

"What  does  that  matter.  Is  it  not  a  dress 
celebrated  by  the  poets?" 

"Marthe!" 

"It  is  truly  sung  by  the  poets,  by  Monsieur 
Noellet  of  Fief-Sauvin,  now  contributor  to  the 
Don  Juan.  You  must  know,  Melie,  that  my  father 
has  invited  him  several  times  to  his  house.  He  is 
not  the  same  Pierre  Noellet  that  you  used  to  know. 
He  is  really  very  clever,  is  he  not,  Madeleine?" 

"Yes,  tolerably  so." 

"I  think  him  very  clever.  Anyhow,  he  can 
write  pretty  good  poetry,  and  his  last  sonnet, 
printed  in  a  little  magazine  for  beginners,  was 
'On  a  Pink  Dress/  'The  material  it  was  made  of 
was  as  soft  as  a  cloud/  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  I 
fancy,  Madeleine,  that  he  went  on  to  compare  it 
with  the  dawn." 

"Very  likely." 

"Which  was  a  novel  idea,  anyhow,"  continued 


172  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

Marthe,  laughing,  "and  that  is  why  I  advise  you 
to  put  it  on." 

"If  it  pleases  Pierre  Noellet,"  said  Madeleine 
haughtily,  somewhat  piqued,  "to  express  his 
gratitude  for  the  hospitality  of  our  house  in  rhyme, 
I  certainly  cannot  prevent  him.  By-the-by,  what 
did  I  hear  this  morning  about  his  coming  here  to 
see  Jacques,  and  that  there  was  a  further  scene 
between  him  and  his  father?  You  ought  to  know 
something  about  it,  Melie." 

She  threw  aside  the  branch  of  jasmine  she  had 
been  pulling  to  pieces  as  she  talked,  and  turned 
toward  Melie;  then,  with  an  exclamation  of  alarm, 
she  cried: 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

The  weaver  was  lying  back  in  her  chair  almost 
unconscious,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Madeleine  with  an 
expression  on  her  face  of  agonized  suffering. 

"I  cut  myself,"  she  said  in  a  weak  voice. 

A  thin  stream  of  blood  was,  in  fact,  trickling 
from  her  hand,  which  hung  limply  beside  her,  and 
the  dark  stain  against  the  hand,  which  was  whiter 
than  marble,  looked  alarming. 

Madeleine  ran  into  the  adjoining  room,  and 
came  back  with  a  surgical  case  and  some  lint; 
and,  having  staunched  the  blood,  she  bandaged 
the  wounded  finger,  Melie  meanwhile  not  stirring. 
The  wound  was  not  a  deep  one,  and  Melie  did  not 
generally  lose  her  courage  and  spirit  in  this  way. 
What  could  have  come  over  her?  Madeleine — 
now  a  woman,  and  seeking  a  woman's  reason  to 
account  for  things,  drew  back  and  looking  scru- 
tinizingly  at  Melie — asked  herself  why  the  girl, 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  173 

who  was  always  so  gentle  and  respectful,  had  that 
fixed  look  on  her  face  of  mutinous  and  agitated 
feeling. 

Melie  -soon  recovered,  and  a  slight  colour  re- 
turned to  her  cheeks. 

"Why,  how  sensitive  we  are,"  said  Marthe,  "to 
fall  into  a  state  of  collapse  like  that  for  a  cut  fin- 
ger! Well,  let  us  go  on  with  our  work;  there  is 
nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about." 

But  Madeleine  immediately  took  her  up: 

"On  the  contrary,  do  you  not  see  that  she  is  in 
need  of  rest.  Go,  Melie,  go,  you  are  not  in  a  condi- 
tion to  help  us  any  more  to-day." 

Melie  rose,  and  left  the  room  like  one  bewil- 
dered. 

She  made  haste  across  the  park,  eager  to  reach 
her  home,  and  once  inside,  instead  of  waiting  to 
take  off  the  fine  apron,  which  she,  poor  girl,  had 
put  on  to  go  to  Landehue,  she  went  straight  down 
to  the  cellar,  to  be  near  her  weaving-machine,  the 
only  friend  she  had  left.  "Pierre  Noellet,  Pierre 
Noellet,"  she  kept  on  saying  to  herself,  "for  whom 
have  you  forsaken  me?  You  suspected  that  she 
did  not  love  you;  I  am  certain  of  it  from  her  look, 
her  manner,  her  words.  Will  she  ever  love  you? 
Will  you  succeed  in  rising  to  her  level?  Will  you 
be  able  to  cross  the  immense  distance  which  sepa- 
rates you?  What  delusions,  what  dangers  are 
you,  may  be,  running  to  meet?  Pierre  Noellet, 
Pierre  Noellet,  if  you  had  only  wished!"  and  so 
great  was  her  love  for  him  that  she  ended  by  pity- 
ing him.  The  old,  maternal  affectionate  pity  that 
she  had  had  for  Abbe  Heurtebise's  pupil  was  re- 


174  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

awakened  and  troubled  as  she  now  thought  of  him ; 
all  other  feeling  was  dead.  Dead  the  dreams  of 
love,  dead  the  selfish  desire  for  happiness!  Melie 
was  no  longer  crying;  all  her  anger  and  envy  had 
passed  away.  All  that  she  was  conscious  of  at 
present  was  of  an  extreme  lassitude  and  a  hideous 
sense  of  loneliness,  such  as  the  survivors  on  a  field 
of  battle  feel  when  the  remains  of  what  were  once 
men,  horses,  arms,  and  harvest-fields  lie  sleeping 
round  them  in  the  light  of  the  moon.  Everything 
was  over  for  ever.  She  had  understood  that  when 
she  saw  Madeleine  Laubriet. 

And  a  second  time  her  energetic  will  called  to 
her,  and  Melie  answered:  "I  will  forgive.  I  will 
try  to  forget.  I  must  not  go  any  more  to  Lande- 
hue,  or  among  my  friends,  for  they  will  see  that 
I  am  in  trouble.  I  will  remain  here.  I  will  be 
very  gentle  with  every  one,  but  I  will  not  again 
open  my  heart  to  another.  I  shall  never  marry. 
I  shall  behave  as  if  I  were  a  widow." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


IT  is,  alas!  a  common  fault  with  humanity  to  mis- 
take misfortune  for  crime,  and  Melie  Rainette 
experienced  the  truth  of  this.  The  imprudence  of 
which  she  had  been  guilty  in  taking  Pierre  Noel- 
let  into  her  house,  their  walk  back  together  from 
Fief-Sauvin  to  La  Geniviere,  the  farmer's  anger, 
and  Jacques'  unaccountable  fainting-fit,  were  all 
matters  discussed  and  commented  upon  under 
every  roof  in  Fief-Sauvin.  Powerless  to  defend 
herself,  and  not  even  fully  aware  of  all  the  calum- 
nies directed  against  her,  she  was  yet  conscious  of 
being  surrounded  by  an  insulting  and  mocking 
curiosity.  Many  of  the  town  matrons  cried  out 
at  the  scandal  and  shut  their  doors  against  her, 
and  the  girls  of  her  own  age,  weavers  like  herself 
and  old  friends,  ostentatiously  avoided  her.  It 
did  not  take  many  days  before  Melie,  who  had 
been  forsaken  by  Pierre,  knew  also  what  it  was  to 
be  forsaken  by  the  world. 

It  was  a  cruel  trial  for  her,  the  attitude  of  the 
Noellets  being  the  hardest  thing  she  had  to  bear. 
When  she  met  them,  they  would  appear  not  even 
to  see  her.  They  walked  on,  sad  of  countenance, 
the  farmer  without  lifting  his  hat,  the  mother  and 
daughters  without  a  sign  of  recognition  to  this 
girl,  who  but  so  lately  had  been  like  one  of  the 
family  at  La  Geniviere.  Accomplice  of  the  un- 

175 


176  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

grateful  and  rebellious  son,  she,  like  him,  had  lost 
her  place  by  their  fireside.  She  was  not  even 
treated  like  a  stranger.  The  old  friendship,  which 
had  for  so  long  protected  and  sustained  her,  was 
now  turned  against  her,  and  by  its  very  silence, 
left  her  a  victim  to  the  evil  tongues  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

It  cost  her  an  effort  to  have  to  ask  for  news  of 
La  Geniviere  from  those  who  cared  little  about  the 
farmer  and  his  family,  and  to  have  to  gather  from 
them  particulars  which  she  could  have  given  them 
in  other  days.  She  inquired  daily  after  Jacques, 
and  heard  that  he  was  growing  worse.  She  longed 
to  run  and  sit  by  his  bedside,  and  to  help  Antoi- 
nette and  Marie  in  their  care  of  Pierre's  best  friend. 
But  even  this  act  of  devotion  was  forbidden  her. 

One  day  on  her  way  home  from  church  she  met 
Abbe  Heurtebise,  who  stopped  her. 

"Melie,"  he  said,  "I  have  just  come  from  him; 
he  cannot  live  through  the  day." 

"Monsieur  le  Cure","  she  answered,  "it  is  not 
possible  for  me  to  go,  I  suppose?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  she  continued  on  her 
way  humiliated  and  in  tears.  After  reaching 
home,  she  remained  for  an  hour  in  the  garden 
looking  toward  the  distant  oaks  of  La  Geniviere. 

In  the  room  just  quitted  by  Abbe  Heurtebise, 
and  on  the  bed  where  the  farmer  and  his  wife 
usually  slept,  Jacques  indeed  lay  dying. 

His  interview  with  the  priest  had  brought  him 
a  momentary  calmness,  and  one  knows  not  what 
grandeur  of  understanding  to  his  soul.  Some  con- 
ception of  that  which  was  a  waiting  him  on  the 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  177 

farther  side  of  life  had  come  to  him,  for  his  face 
had  been  illuminated  and  as  it  were  transfigured 
by  the  nobility  of  its  expression.  What  did  his 
eyes  see  as  he  gazed  toward  the  open  window? 
His  kneeling  sisters,  his  mother  drooping  with  fa- 
tigue, but  still  holding  his  hand  in  hers?  The  vine- 
tendrils  that  hung  down  over  the  opening  from 
the  trellis  above,  against  the  blue  light  beyond? 
The  white  curtains  that  swayed  in  the  wind  with 
the  sound  of  a  bird  taking  flight?  The  little  tree 
in  front  of  it,  from  which  still  fluttered  the  re- 
mains of  a  kite,  a  relic  of  long  past  days?  No. 
His  vision  travelled  far  beyond  these  things.  He 
saw  death,  but  he  saw  it  without  fear,  for  he 
smiled.  Peace,  a  certainty  of  hope,  a  joy  in  which 
the  soul  alone  had  part,  something  apart  from  and 
superior  to  life,  these  could  be  read  upon  his  face 
on  which  death  also  had  written,  "I  am  here." 

A  terrible  oppression  overcame  him,  and  the 
anguish  of  it  gave  him  strength  to  raise  himself  in 
bed.  His  mother  had  already  risen,  and  was  sup- 
porting him,  gently  laying  him  down  again  as  the 
fit  subsided.  And  now  he  lay  with  his  eyes  shut, 
once  more  conscious  only  of  his  suffering.  And  so 
the  hours  went  by,  slowly,  slowly,  the  seconds 
marked  by  the  heavy  breathing,  which  grew  more 
and  more  laboured. 

Some  neighbours  of  the  town  had  come  to 
watch  with  the  Noellets.  There  were  at  least  fif- 
teen persons  in  the  room  all  on  their  knees  round 
the  bed,  as  round  an  altar,  watching  for  the  com- 
ing of  the  one  who  holds  universal  and  sovereign 
command  over  men,  with  a  commiseration  that 


178  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

was  mingled  with  self-pity,  as  their  thoughts  re- 
verted to  themselves.  When  one  among  them 
rose,  the  others  followed  her  with  their  eyes,  and 
there  was  a  rattling  of  rosaries  through  the  silent 
room.  At  intervals,  Julien  Noellet,  who  stood  like 
a  gray  granite  figure  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  opened 
an  old  book  with  a  warped  cover,  the  same  that 
he  had  regularly  opened  every  evening  for  forty 
years,  and  without  any  preliminary,  read  aloud 
a  psalm  or  a  prayer,  his  voice  only  slightly  less 
firm  than  usual.  A  murmur  of  voices  of  all  ages 
made  response;  then  suddenly  one  of  the  voices 
would  cease,  choked  with  tears,  and  only  two  or 
three  were  able  to  finish  the  responses  in  which 
they  had  all  at  first  joined. 

It  was  toward  four  o'clock  when  Jacques  lifted 
his  hand,  now  quite  cold,  which  had  been  lying 
stretched  out  beside  him  on  the  sheet;  as  he  did 
so  he  half  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  round  with 
an  expression  of  deep  and  questioning  anxiety  in 
them  as  if  seeking  for  some  one,  a  look  as  from 
one  beyond  the  grave  who  sees  before  him  the 
spaces  of  infinity. 

"What  is  it,  my  Jacques?"  asked  his  mother. 

He  seemed  to  hear  her,  for  his  lips  moved,  and 
he  whispered: 

"My  brother,  the  abbe*,  where  is  he?" 

Jacques  drew  another  breath.  Then,  all  at 
once,  the  breathing  ceased,  the  sheet  rose  with  his 
last  struggling  effort,  the  spark  of  life  died  out  of 
the  face,  and  a  bluish  pallor  overspread  the  body 
from  head  to  foot. 

Tears  and  lamentation  now  arose  from  the  neigh- 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  179 

bours  and  from  Jacques'  sisters.  The  mingled 
sound  of  their  shrill  cries  was  carried  through  the 
windows  and  announced  to  those  afar  that  Jacques 
was  dead,  while  the  father  and  mother,  silent  and 
immovable,  watched  their  son's  face  growing  dig- 
nified in  death,  as  it  gradually  reassumed  the 
supernatural  expression  they  had  already  seen 
upon  it  that  morning. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


Two  days  after  the  neighbours  from  the  sur- 
rounding farms  repaired  again  at  an  early  hour  to 
La  Geniviere.  The  women,  clad  in  their  black 
hoods  and  looking  like  nuns,  passed  through  the 
first  room,  which  was  left  open,  into  the  second 
room,  generally  so  light  and  bright,  but  now 
closed  and  filled  with  their  sombre  figures,  and 
there  knelt  in  prayer.  In  the  centre,  resting  on 
two  chairs,  was  the  coffin,  covered  with  a  white 
cloth,  on  which  had  been  placed  a  bunch  of  flowers 
gathered  that  morning  by  Antoinette,  and  a  sprig 
of  rosemary  lying  in  a  saucer  filled  with  holy 
water.  The  draught  from  the  door  blew  aside  the 
flames  of  the  two  candles  placed  on  the  floor  to 
right  and  left  of  the  coffin,  and  the  light  from  these 
hardly  served  to  show  the  way  through  the  gloom, 
so  dimly  they  seemed  to  burn  amid  these  dark 
dresses  and  cloaks.  The  relations  from  Montre- 
vault  and  from  other  towns  of  Vendee  were  also 
there,  numbering  among  them  some  of  the  female 
cousins  that  one  sees  only  at  weddings  and  funer- 
als. They  were  all  weeping,  some  with  such  heavy 
sighs  and  sobs  that  they  could  be  heard  by  the 
men  who  were  waiting  outside  in  the  courtyard. 

The  latter,  more  self-contained,  as  became  the 
heads  of  families,  were  grouped  in  front  of  the 
house,  chatting  about  the  wheat,  the  silvery  gray 

180 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  181 

ears  of  which  could  be  seen  near  the  mill  of  Haute- 
Brune.  They  foretold  what  the  weather  would  be 
at  the  end  of  the  summer,  not  all  of  them  being  of 
the  same  mind  about  it,  and  talked  of  other  similar 
subjects,  but  with  the  gravity  due  to  the  thought 
of  the  mourning  which  had  brought  them  together. 

Death  was  held  in  respect  by  these  peasants, 
and  Jacques,  only  a  poor  little  soldier  and  the 
least  among  them,  had  true  mourners  among  these 
distant  relatives.  They  gave  him  tears,  and  gen- 
uine grief  and  the  pity  whose  weeping  is  a  prayer. 

With  them,  standing  nearest  to  the  threshold, 
was  the  farmer.  From  time  to  time  a  fresh  vehi- 
cle arrived  filled  with  relatives  in  mourning  attire. 
Some  of  the  men  went  forward  to  shake  hands,  or 
to  unharness  the  horse  and  find  it  a  place  under 
the  shed,  while  the  new-comers  went  up  to  the 
head  of  the  family  and  accosted  him  in  the  cere- 
monious manner  and  with  the  stereotyped  greet- 
ings that  are  considered  the  polite  thing  among 
the  Vendeeans. 

"Good-day,  cousin,  how  are  you?" 

"Thank  you,  I  am  quite  well." 

"And,  my  cousin,  your  wife,  how  is  she?" 

"Quite  well,  also,  thank  God." 

"And  my  cousins,  your  daughters,  and  the  rest 
of  your  household,  how  are  they  all?" 

The  farmer  continued  to  answer,  and  went 
through  the  same  category  of  questions  on  his 
side,  inquiring  after  the  health  of  his  male  and 
female  cousins,  and  "everybody  at  home."  It 
was  only  when  this  exchange  of  greetings  was 
over  that  the  women  retired  into  the  house,  the 


182  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

men  joining  one  or  other  of  the  groups  assembled 
in  the  courtyard. 

When  eight  o'clock  sounded  he  made  a  sign  to 
two  young  farmer  friends  from  Renaudiere  and 
the  Grande  Ecorciere,  who  went  into  the  shed  and 
brought  out  a  stout  ash-pole.  Going  into  the 
room  where  the  sobs  of  the  women  were  growing 
louder,  they  slung  the  coffin  on  it  by  means  of 
two  cords.  Then,  lifting  the  burden  to  the  level 
of  their  shoulder,  they  carried  it  through  the  ad- 
joining room,  in  which  Jacques  had  slept  all  his 
life,  and  out  of  the  house  and  through  the  court- 
yard toward  the  road.  As  they  passed  the  stable 
the  horses  grew  excited  and  neighed.  How  often 
he  had  driven  them!  The  trees  spread  their 
branches  overhead  as  the  procession  passed  along 
— oaks  and  elms,  cherry-trees,  their  green  fruit, 
swollen  with  sap,  glancing  in  the  spring  sunshine, 
apple-trees  in  full  blossom  shedding  a  pink  and 
white  foam  on  the  path  below.  The  fields  of  flax 
bent  to  the  mourners;  the  fields  of  wheat  and  bar- 
ley shook  their  heads.  Not  a  bird  was  to  be  seen. 

Death  was  passing  that  way.  The  carriers 
paused  as  they  came  to  a  cross-path,  and  put  the 
coffin  down  on  the  grass,  which  made  the  strained 
cords  creak  over  the  ash-pole.  The  train  of 
mourners  paused  also,  and  one  of  the  relatives, 
who  was  carrying  three  or  four  little  crosses  of 
thin  chestnut-wood  about  a  foot  long,  stuck  one 
in  the  ground  at  the  angle  formed  by  two  banks, 
among  other  crosses  left  by  the  dead  of  the  year 
before.  They  were  there  to  say  to  the  passers-by, 
"You  who  come  from  the  same  corners  of  the 


183 

Bocage,  as  you  lead  your  beasts  to  pasture  or 
bring  home  your  ploughs,  pray,  good  people 
whom  I  have  known,  pray  for  Jacques  Noellet, 
one  of  yourselves,  who  has  travelled  along  the 
road  which  you,  too,  will  follow  some  day  to  his 
last  resting-place,  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  two 
ploughmen  of  Fief-Sauvin.  Good  people,  make 
haste,  and  do  not  forget  me  as  long  as  these  two 
slips  of  chestnut-wood,  which  are  planted  here  in 
memory  of  my  last  journey,  remain  undestroyed 
by  the  earth  and  rain." 

Then  the  procession  went  forward  again,  wind- 
ing across  the  warm  and  agitated  country. 

0  fathers,  0  fair-haired  Kelts,  it  was  thus  you 
carried  your  dead,  slung  from  a  branch  of  the 
forest,  to  the  green  mound  where  they  were  to 
take  their  rest.  It  was  thus  in  a  mournful  band 
that  you  bore  them  along  your  ways.  The  cries 
of  your  women,  covered  with  their  veils ;  the  bold, 
hard-featured  heads  and  faces  and  long  hair  of  your 
men;  your  primitive  natures,  with  their  violent 
passions  wholly  given  up  to  pleasure  or  to  grief. 
Nothing  has  changed.  Here  were  the  same  cus- 
toms, the  same  appurtenances.  You  lived  again 
in  these  sons  and  daughters,  even  in  the  inanimate 
things.  Your  bones  were  mingled  with  the  dust 
which  they  disturbed.  Your  blood  that  had  be- 
come sap  was  swelling  the  ears  of  corn.  In  the 
full-blown  periwinkles  beside  the  ditches  there 
was  seen  something  of  the  blue  of  your  virgins' 
eyes.  There  were  eyes,  too,  in  the  clear  drops  that 
hung  from  the  tips  of  the  branches.  Shuddering 
breaths  of  wind  blew  past  like  voices — voices  that 


184  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

could  no  longer  speak,  but  still  wept  on.  The 
earth,  the  grass,  the  dew,  the  wayside  flowers,  all 
this  matter  that  had  once  had  human  form  and 
stirred  the  human  heart  gathered  sorrowing 
around  Jacques'  coffin  and  enveloped  him  with 
its  wailing. 

The  bell  began  to  toll.  At  that  moment  Jacques 
passed  for  the  last  time  and  forever  over  the 
boundary  of  the  land  where  he  had  been  born ;  La 
Geniviere  was  lost  to  view;  close  by  rose  the  new 
church,  with  its  open-work  spire,  where  the  silhou- 
ette of  the  bell-ringer  could  be  seen  keeping  time 
with  his  swaying  figure. 

When  at  last,  the  long  service  in  the  church 
being  over,  the  body  was  carried  into  the  church- 
yard and  let  down  into  the  grave,  the  yellow  clay 
from  which  lay  around  hiding  the  green  grass, 
and  the  final  prayer  of  the  priest  had  consigned  it 
to  the  grave-digger,  fresh  weeping  arose,  and  for 
a  last  time  the  thought  of  Jacques  crossed  the 
minds  of  many  there  who  had  come  out  of  civility 
or  sympathy.  Then  the  crowd  dispersed  and  be- 
came scattered  about  the  churchyard.  Friends 
sought  one  another  among  the  tombs.  The  tie 
that  had  temporarily  bound  these  men  and  women 
together  was  broken.  Families  reformed  prepara- 
tory to  returning  home,  and  gradually  disap- 
peared in  different  directions,  already  back  again 
in  the  world  of  life,  and  experiencing  an  inexpres- 
sible pleasure  in  talking,  in  walking  at  a  natural 
pace,  in  forgetting  the  dead  on  whom  the  heavy 
soft  earth  was  now  falling. 

The  Noellets  were  the  last  to  leave  the  church- 


''THIS,   MY  SON"  185 

yard.  The  farmer  and  his  wife  kept  side  by  side, 
having  no  part  in  the  murmur  and  rustle  of  talk 
and  movement  around  them.  They  were  alone, 
for  their  children  had  gone  on  in  front,  and  so 
deeply  plunged  in  thought  of  the  one  from  whom 
they  had  just  parted  that  they  had  no  eyes  or  ears 
for  anybody  or  anything.  Again  the  mother  held 
him  as  an  infant  in  her  arms,  as  in  those  first  years 
of  married  life  that  have  such  sweet  burdens  to 
bear.  He  was  really  a  beautiful  child  and  very 
strong;  he  was  always  ready  to  laugh.  As  for 
Julien,  he  thought  of  the  strong  young  plough- 
man that  he  had  grown  into  at  first,  and  then  of 
the  shrunken  face  of  the  little  soldier  who  had 
come  home  from  the  barracks  in  a  coat  that  had 
grown  too  large  for  him.  In  low  voices,  and  in  a 
few  quickly  spoken  words,  the  two  resigned  ones 
exchanged  their  heart-broken  thoughts.  And 
Pierre?  Both  of  them  perhaps  were  thinking  of 
him,  but  his  name  did  not  pass  their  lips. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE  sun  had  hardly  risen  when  Julien  Noellet's 
voice  was  heard  calling  to  the  farm-servant  who 
slept  over  the  bakehouse,  and  ordering  him  to 
make  haste  and  yoke  the  large  pair  of  oxen.  The 
man  was  astonished,  for  in  the  month  of  May  the 
ploughing  is  long  over  and  the  carting  not  begun, 
and  as  for  going  to  the  fair,  independent  of  the 
fact  that  the  farmer  no  longer  attended  them  with 
his  former  regularity,  there  had  been  no  question 
about  it  the  night  before.  And  the  sale  of  a  pair 
of  oxen — especially  of  such  a  pair  as  that — is  a 
grave  matter,  requiring  long  thought  and  delib- 
eration. The  farmer  had  never  even  spoken  of 
such  a  thing.  Why,  then,  did  he  want  them 
yoked?  So  the  farm-servant  reasoned  with  him- 
self as  he  hastily  dressed,  and  still  half  asleep  went 
down  the  ladder  which  led  up  to  his  room. 

He  found  the  farmer  standing  with  his  arms 
crossed  on  the  paved  footway  which  ran  down 
the  middle  of  the  cowshed,  contemplating  his  six 
plough-oxen,  who  were  turning  their  heads  toward 
him  with  short  impatient  lowings,  asking  for  their 
morning  meal.  Julien  Noellet  looked  gloomy,  but 
then  that  was  not  unusual  in  these  days.  The  farm- 
servant  did  not  dare  to  question  him.  He  took 
down  the  yoke  made  of  polished  service  wood,  and 
placed  it  on  the  necks  of  the  two  finest  oxen, 

186 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  187 

Vermais  and  Fauveau,  who  were  spotted  white 
and  red,  high  hi  the  back  and  broad  of  flank,  and 
as  he  was  strapping  the  wood  to  the  horns,  he 
noticed  a  tear  trickling  down  the  fanner's  hollow 
cheek.  When  he  had  finished  twining  the  leathern 
strap  he  unhooked  the  goad,  and  stood  waiting, 
leaning  against  Vermais'  immense  shoulder.  Julien 
sighed : 

"Look  at  them  well,  my  good  lad,"  he  said. 
"You  will  not  often  have  such  fine  beasts  as  that 
to  yoke,  live  as  long  as  you  may." 

"That  is  very  likely,"  the  man  replied. 

"They  make  a  splendid  pair,"  the  farmer  con- 
tinued; "the  same  colour  and  the  same  age. 
Vermais,  perhaps,  is  a  little  the  stronger  of  the 
two.  I  have  never  known  them  refuse  to  draw, 
never  known  them  ill,  although  they  have  known 
some  very  tough  days'  work." 

"You  may  well  say  so,  master." 

"Not  that  I  despise  the  others;  Chauvin  and 
Rougeais  are  good  beasts,  too ;  Caille  and  Nobiais 
will  do  their  work  as  well  as  the  others  when  they 
are  older;  but  those  two  I  was  really  fond  of." 

"Are  you  going  to  sell  them,  then,"  asked  the 
man,  "as  you  speak  of  them  with  such  regret?" 

"I  am  going  to  do  as  I  please,"  replied  the 
farmer  curtly.  "Lead  them  out  on  to  the  road." 

The  servant  put  a  smock  on  over  his  clothes, 
for  it  was  drizzling,  and  drove  out  the  oxen. 
After  all,  what  did  it  matter  to  him?  To  sell  this 
pair  of  oxen,  or  buy  another,  to  be  here  or  there, 
follow  along  the  road,  or  mow,  it  was  all  only  a 
matter  pf  obeying  and  earning  one's  living.  His 


188  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

broad  face,  which  had  for  a  moment  shown  a  look 
of  surprise,  soon  resumed  its  natural  placidity  of 
expression.  Without  further  word  or  thought  he 
began  to  keep  pace  with  his  beasts,  whose  heads 
were  above  his  own,  whistling  two  little  notes 
which  they  knew  well,  to  encourage  them. 

The  farmer  followed  behind,  leaning  on  his  red 
thorn  stick,  which  was  fastened  to  his  wrist  by  a 
thin  leather  thong.  He  kept  his  eyes  down  on  the 
ground,  only  lifting  them  occasionally,  and  then 
as  he  looked  at  the  tawny  croups  of  his  favourite 
beasts,  at  their  well-marked  coats,  their  muzzles 
swaying  from  right  to  left  to  the  rhythm  of  their 
gait,  while  their  breaths  rose  like  white  smoke 
in  the  frosty  morning  air,  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 
He  recalled  the  hours  of  heavy  ploughing  he  had 
shared  with  Vermais  and  Fauveau,  the  day  when 
he  had  bought  them,  with  Jacques,  at  the  fair  of 
Sainte-Christine,  and  all  the  opportunities  he  had 
been  given  of  selling  them  at  great  profit.  But  he 
had  cared  for  them  too  much  to  part  with  them. 
His  great  delight  had  been  to  see  his  full  comple- 
ment of  oxen,  the  six  of  them,  yoked  together. 
Perhaps  he  was  being  punished  for  the  pride  he  had 
felt  in  them.  To  sell  them,  and  not  buy  others  to 
take  their  place,  what  a  disgrace!  What  pain  to 
follow  step  by  step  like  this,  while  the  wealth  of 
La  Geniviere  was  slowly  departing!  And  what 
had  brought  it  about?  The  same  cause,  always 
the  same. 

The  farmers  from  Fief-Sauvin  and  the  farther 
districts  greeted  him  as  they  trotted  past  on  their 
way  to  the  fair  at  Beaupreau;  the  sellers  of  eggs 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  189 

and  poultry  put  their  heads  out  from  under  the 
cover  of  their  carts,  where  they  sat  among  their 
baskets;  messengers  passing  lifted  their  hats. 
He  made  no  response;  did  not  even  raise  his  eyes. 
He  continued  to  brood  over  his  misfortune. 
The  very  morning  of  Jacques'  death,  he  had  had  a 
letter  from  Paris.  This  time  Pierre  had  not  sent 
a  letter  to  either  his  mother  or  sisters.  To  his 
father  he  wrote  as  follows: 

"You  owe  me  a  sum  of  money  which  you  are 
unjustly  keeping  from  me.  Seven  months  ago  I 
sent  to  claim  it.  I  have  not  received  a  word  in 
reply.  I  can  wait  no  longer.  My  creditor  knows 
that  you  have  money  owing  to  me.  And  if  I  have 
not  paid  him  fifteen  hundred  francs  before  a  week 
is  out,  he  will  take  proceedings  against  you.  I 
have  no  power  to  prevent  him." 

At  first  he  had  flown  into  a  rage,  and  had  de- 
clared that  he  would  pay  nothing,  that  he  had 
spent  more  on  his  son  than  the  money  left  by  his 
uncle  was  worth,  and  that  he  had  nothing  over 
from  it.  Years  before  the  fifteen  hundred  francs 
had  been  invested  in  the  farm,  and  to  recover  it  he 
would  be  forced  to  sell  his  beasts  or  his  timber, 
to  become  poorer,  to  still  further  deprive  himself. 
No,  he  would  rather  that  the  threat  should  be 
carried  out.  He  would  see  if  this  unworthy  son 
would  dare  to  go  as  far  as  to  proceed  against  him, 
and  to  drag  him  into  court.  For  twenty-four  hours 
Julien  Noellet  stuck  to  his  resolution,  but  on 
further  reflection  he  had  given  in,  for,  after  all, 
he  owed  this  part  of  the  inheritance.  He  then 


190  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

made  up  his  mind  to  part  with  Vermais  and 
Fauveau  in  order  to  pay  Pierre's  debts.  And  now 
he  was  taking  his  good  beasts  to  be  sold.  It  was 
a  profound  humiliation  to  him  to  feel  himself 
conquered  by  his  son,  to  be  constrained  to  obey 
the  law,  a  second-rate  power  in  his  eyes,  which  had 
hitherto  been  subordinated  to  his  domestic  au- 
thority. 

They  had  reached  the  foot  of  a  little  hill  that 
rises  near  Beaupre*au.  Vermais  and  Fauveau 
mounted  the  incline  with  their  same  firm  and  even 
gait.  He  looked  at  them  again  as  the  rising  sun 
shone  upon  them,  superb  creatures,  ruddy  as  ripe 
chestnuts,  and  thought  to  himself:  "It  is  better 
for  Jacques  to  have  died;  he  would  have  felt  it 
too  much." 

Then,  aware  that  he  was  nearing  Beaupre"au,  he 
drew  his  short  pipe  out  of  his  pocket  and  lighted 
it,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  do  whenever  he  entered 
the  town,  anxious  to  appear  as  usual.  The  farm- 
servant,  pleased  to  catch  sight  of  the  roofs  against 
the  brightening  sky,  and  being  free  from  care  of  all 
kind,  began  to  sing.  Noellet  went  forward,  and 
the  two  men  entered  BeauprSau  walking  on  either 
side  of  the  oxen. 

The  streets  were  full  of  blue  blouses  and  white 
caps,  all  making  their  way  to  the  market-place. 

The  crowds,  with  the  regular  flow  of  running 
water,  were  streaming  from  all  sides  into  the  slop- 
ing field,  adding  their  numbers  to  the  men  and 
animals  already  collected  on  the  spot  in  such 
swarms  that  the  yellow  clay  of  the  soil  was  no 
longer  visible.  The  fresh  arrivals  joined  the  mass, 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  191 

causing  a  momentary  eddy,  stood  still,  and  became 
lost  among  their  fellows. 

The  farm-servant  from  La  Geniviere  did  the 
same  when  his  turn  came.  Seizing  Vermais  by  one 
of  its  horns,  he  whistled  softly  to  quiet  the  beasts 
as  he  urged  them  forward.  They  had  not  gone 
far  before  a  stout  dealer  from  La  Villette  made  a 
sign  to  Julien  Noellet,  and  the  servant,  laying  his 
goad  athwart,  brought  his  beasts  to  a  standstill. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Julien  Noellet  had 
sold  his  oxen  for  slaughter.  As  a  rule  he  never 
gave  a  thought  to  the  fate  that  was  awaiting  them; 
but  to-day  he  saw  in  imagination  the  mallet  of  the 
slaughterer  fall  on  the  white  star  which  both 
Vermais  and  Fauveau  wore  on  their  foreheads,  and 
just  as  the  sale  was  being  concluded,  he  hesitated, 
and  asked: 

"Do  you  want  them  for  killing?" 

"Certainly  not  for  anything  else,"  said  the 
dealer,  laughing.  "Did  you  think  I  bought  your 
oxen  to  keep  them  in  clover?" 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  resign  himself. 
Julien  clapped  hands  with  the  buyer,  and  turning 
to  the  servant,  said : 

"You  hear;  in  two  hours'  time  you  are  to  give 
them  up  at  the  nearer  end  of  the  Route  du  Pin. 
After  that  you  can  go  about  your  own  business, 
if  you  have  any.  Here  are  forty  sous  for  your 
expenses." 

The  man  could  hardly  believe  that  his  master 
had  sold  his  two  oxen  without  buying  others,  and 
was  astonished  at  being  dismissed  so  early  in  the 
day.  He  stood  still,  staring,  as  if  expecting  a 


192  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

sequel  of  some  kind  to  this  order,  which  was 
evidently  incomplete. 

"Touch  up  your  beasts,  you  confounded  boy, 
and  don't  .stand  gaping  at  me  like  that!"  exclaimed 
the  farmer,  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  put  an  end  to 
all  doubt  on  the  part  of  the  man. 

And  with  this  he  turned  abruptly  out  of  the 
field,  taking  the  butcher  with  him,  so  that  the  bar- 
gain might  be  concluded  and  the  money  handed 
over  in  the  public  house,  the  while  his  two  big 
oxen,  with  lowered  horns,  were  being  driven 
through  the  crowd  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Julien  Noellet  was  no  drinker.  As  a  rule  he  only 
looked  into  the  public  houses  for  a  minute  or  two. 
To-day  he  lingered,  first  with  the  butcher  who  had 
bought  his  oxen,  then  with  the  farmers,  who  came 
from  all  the  parishes  of  the  Mauges,  and  with 
whom,  as  a  rule,  he  only  exchanged  nods  on  the 
rare  occasions  of  meeting.  He  treated  them  to 
drinks,  and,  for  no  purpose  of  business,  conversed 
a  good  deal  and  in  a  loud  voice  with  each  in  turn, 
continuing  to  sit  on  in  the  same  place  after  he  had 
breakfasted.  The  older  men  from  Fief  and 
Villeneuve,  seeing  the  farmer,  who  was  generally 
so  taciturn  and  sober  among  those  of  his  kind,  thus 
drinking  and  smoking  without  moving  from  his 
seat,  said  to  each  other:  "Can  you  believe  it  is 
the  same  man?  Since  his  son's  death  one  would 
scarcely  know  him  again." 

The  master  of  La  Geniviere  had  in  truth  much 
to  trouble  him,  and  he  drank  to  forget  it. 

It  was  nearing  sunset  before  he  left  the  public 
house,  and  then,  instead  of  taking  the  road  to  Fife- 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  193 

Sauvin,  he  went  to  the  notary,  who  had  his  house 
in  the  centre  of  the  town.  He  was  not  drunk, 
but  he  began  to  feel  a  heaviness  in  his  head  and 
an  unsteadiness  in  his  legs. 

At  the  sight  of  the  professional  brass-plate,  how- 
ever, he  drew  himself  together. 

"I  have  brought  some  money,"  he  said,  the 
moment  he  entered  the  office  with  its  striped  green 
and  black  walls,  through  which  so  many  of  his  kind 
had  passed  during  the  day. 

"Money,  Maitre  Noellet,  and  what  for?" 

"To  send  away." 

"Why,  now,  I  never  knew  you  to  have  debts  to 
pay." 

"It  is  the  sons  who  make  them,"  replied  the 
farmer. 

Without  vouchsafing  further  information,  he 
took  out  his  leather  purse  and  counted  out  the 
louis  d'or  one  by  one,  placing  them  on  the  desk  in 
piles  of  five,  counting  over  each  pile  more  than 
once,  as  if  mistrusting  his  calculation.  When  he 
came  to  the  seventh  he  paused,  and  said  solemnly, 
"That's  for  Vermais." 

Then  he  started  counting  again.  At  the  four- 
teenth he  said  again,  "That  is  for  Fauveau." 

When  at  last  the  fifteen  hundred  francs,  slowly 
drawn  out  of  the  old  purse  and  slowly  de- 
posited by  the  farmer,  were  lying  in  fifteen  little 
piles  of  gold  on  the  faded  mahogany  of  the 
desk: 

"There  is  the  whole  sum  left  by  Uncle  Thomas 
of  Montrevault,"  he  added,  as  a  concluding 
remark. 


194  ''THIS,  MY  SON" 

"I  remember  that  affair,"  said  the  notary;  "the 
legacy  was  left  to  your  son." 

"Yes." 

"And  it  is  to  him  the  money  is  to  be  sent?" 

"Yes,  but  I  wish  you  to  write  to  him  at  the 
same  time." 

"That  will  be  quite  easy,  Noellet,  quite  easy. 
What  am  I  to  say  to  him?" 

"You  will  tell  him  from  me  that,  now  he  is  paid, 
we  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  each  other — 
nothing,  do  you  understand?" 

"Perfectly." 

"You  will  also  tell  him  that  I  have  forbidden  his 
mother  and  sisters  to  write  to  him,  and  that  neither 
I,  nor  any  of  my  household,  will  henceforth  receive 
letters  from  him." 

The  notary,  who  was  a  conciliatory  man,  replied : 

"You  are  giving  me  a  commission,  Maitre 
Noellet,  which  is,  I  must  say " 

"You  refuse  to  undertake  it?"  interrupted  the 
farmer. 

"I  know  your  son  misled  you " 

"You  refuse?"  repeated  Julien  Noellet,  putting 
out  his  hand  to  take  back  the  money. 

"If  you  really  insist  upon  it." 

"Well,  then,  write  as  I  wish:  the  reasons  for  so 
doing  are  my  business;  I  am  the  father,  you  under- 
stand." 

The  notary  knew  his  Vende*eans  well.  He  ac- 
companied his  client  to  the  door  without  attempt- 
ing any  more  objections. 

Julien  Noellet  wound  the  strap  of  his  stick  round 
his  wrist,  passed  through  a  few  streets,  and  then 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  195 

started  to  return  home  in  the  mild  evening  air 
along  the  Fief-Sauvin  road. 

He  walked  quickly,  with  long  strides.  It  was 
just  the  hour  when  the  last  farmers  and  dealers 
were  driving  home  in  their  carts  with  their  wives, 
children  and  purchases.  On  seeing  Julien  they  all 
in  turn  slackened  their  horses'  speed,  and  offered 
to  take  him  up.  But  he  refused;  his  blood  felt 
on  fire,  and  he  hoped  the  walk  would  calm  him. 

"No,"  he  said  once  more. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  have  sold  your  big  oxen?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  have  not  bought  any  others,  I  sup- 
pose, as  you  are  walking  home  like  that?" 

This  question  repeated  over  and  over  again 
exasperated  the  peasant. 

Just  before  he  reached  the  mill  at  Haute-Brune, 
he  turned  off  the  main  road  to  avoid  further 
meetings.  His  intention  was  to  return  to  La 
Geniviere  by  way  of  the  fields.  It  was  growing 
dark,  and  night  had  already  invaded  the  valley. 
The  heights  to  the  right  and  left  still  kept  a  point 
of  light  here  and  there,  and  a  last  field  of  wheat,  a 
clump  of  trees,  caught  the  rays  of  the  sinking  sun. 
But  soon  the  last  spark  had  vanished,  and  the 
mists  from  the  neighbouring  ponds  added  to  the 
darkness  that  surrounded  the  peasant. 

He  had  hardly  left  the  mill  a  hundred  yards  or 
so  behind  him,  and  was  still  within  hearing  of  the 
plunging  sails,  when  he  suddenly  stopped,  over- 
come with  amazement  and  fear.  Seated  on  one  of 
the  large  gray  boulders  that  had  fallen  into  the 
middle  of  the  River  Evre,  the  waters  of  which 


196  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

flowed  gurgling  round  it,  was  an  old  man  with  his 
legs  hanging  over  the  stream.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
the  miller  looking  after  his  eel-lines.  But  there 
were  certain  things  about  him  by  which  Noellet 
seemed  to  recognize  his  grandfather,  who  had  been 
dead  twenty-seven  years,  one  of  the  rough  simple- 
minded  men  of  the  old  times.  There  was  no  pos- 
sibility of  doubt  about  it.  It  was  the  man  over 
again,  with  his  snow-white  hair,  his  short-skirted 
jacket,  his  brown  gaiters  up  to  his  knees,  and 
even  the  familiar  movement  of  his  head,  which  he 
would  thrust  forward  if  asked  to  recall  some  past 
event.  For  he  had  been  all  through  the  great  war 
of  1793,  this  grandfather,  and  had  lived  among  the 
furze,  and  been  on  the  march  day  and  night;  he 
had  been  twice  wounded,  had  crossed  the  Loire 
with  the  routed  army,  had  seen,  known,  and  suf- 
fered everything;  he  could  tell  long  tales  about  it 
all  at  night.  And  why  had  he  come  back?  How 
had  he  got  there,  just  in  his  grandson's  path,  ap- 
pearing at  the  usual  distance  of  these  phantoms 
of  the  dark,  who  are  never  either  near  or  far. 
Julien  was  so  afraid  that  he  would  ask  after 
Pierre,  that  he  stopped  and  slunk  away  toward 
the  willow-hedge  which  ran  to  his  left  alongside 
the  field.  When  about  twenty  paces  from  it, 
however,  he  heard  a  voice  from  across  the  river, 
and  the  sprouting  willows  calling  out:  "Are  you 
in  a  great  hurry,  Julien?" 

Respect  and  fear  held  him  rooted  to  the  spot. 
Never  in  his  life  had  he  addressed  his  grandfather 
without  taking  off  his  hat.  He  uncovered  and 
waited.  There  was  a  singing  in  his  ears  as  if  all 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  197 

the  grasshoppers  of  the  field  were  inside  his  head. 
The  voice  continued: 

"You  have  sold  the  oxen,  Julien,  and  you  have 
not  bought  any  others  to  replace  them.  Were 
they  too  dear?" 

He  could  hear  the  words  distinctly,  but  he  could 
only  distinguish  an  indistinct  form  on  account  of 
the  distance  and  the  mist  that  the  wind  was  driv- 
ing between  him  and  the  river.  He  answered: 

"No,  grandfather,  they  were  not  too  dear.  I 
sold  the  oxen  to  pay  my  son's  debts." 

"Your  two  finest?" 

"Yes,  that  they  were!" 

The  voice  sounded  deeper  as  it  went  on: 

"It  is  a  great  pity,  my  poor  Julien,  about  the 
children  nowadays;  we  behaved  better  in  the  old 
times,  the  old  times,  the  old  times."  And  echoes 
seemed  to  come  from  all  sides — the  woods,  the 
river-creeks;  the  hillsides  buried  in  shadow  re- 
peated, "Old  times;  old  times." 

And  the  farmer  saw  a  regiment  of  soldiers  in 
white  uniforms  and  with  cockades  in  their  hats 
suddenly  rise  into  view.  A  pale  light  was  shed 
above  them  by  the  barrels  of  their  rifles  and  their 
uplifted  scythes.  They  were  marching  to  the 
assault  of  an  immense  rampart  that  could  be  seen 
down  there  in  the  dark  night.  The  grandfathe 
was  leading  them.  The  earth  shook  beneath  thei 
heavy  shoes,  the  bushes  cracked,  the  reeds  were 
trampled  by  the  river-side  as  the  column  marched 
on  in  serried  ranks.  Julien  recognized  nearly  all 
of  them,  for  he  had  known  them  in  his  youth,  these 
honoured  veterans,  men  of  a  day  now  past,  the 


198  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

remains  of  the  glorious  old  Vende'e.  They  recog- 
nized him,  too,  and  whispered  something  to  each 
other  which  he  could  not  hear,  with  a  glance  of 
pity  toward  him.  They  marched  past  him,  as  if 
swept  along  by  the  storm,  so  rapidly  did  they 
advance,  while  the  grandfather,  still  at  their  head 
a  long  way  off,  continued  to  look  toward  the  spot 
where  Julien  had  remained  standing,  his  feet  in  the 
high  grass,  the  dark  fields  all  around  him,  weeping 
for  shame. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


THE  end  of  the  summer  had  come,  the  season  when 
the  oppressive  heat  of  the  sun  remains  intense  to 
the  hour  of  its  setting,  and  when  thousands  of 
different  insects  creep  into  the  cracks  of  the  earth, 
and  are  heard  humming.  The  grasses  cracked, 
the  berries  dropped  from  the  wild  creepers. 
Hardly  a  flower  was  left,  for  the  flowers  had 
perished  in  the  furnace  of  heat  in  which  the  grain 
had  ripened.  In  place  of  their  vanished  scents, 
the  evening  air  was  filled  with  the  floating  perfume 
of  the  harvest.  Barley,  oats,  wheat,  all  were  cut. 
The  beautiful,  trembling  ears  of  corn  had  ceased 
to  laugh  and  chatter  among  themselves;  they 
were  lying  low,  some  gathered  into  sheaves,  with 
their  heads  turned  one  to  the  other  in  the  close 
embrace  of  death,  others  already  in  the  barn. 
For  many,  many  days  the  labourers,  women  as 
well  as  men,  had  been  mowing  with  all  their  might, 
bathed  in  sweat,  penetrating  to  the  depths  of  some 
tawny  square.  At  last  it  was  over.  The  earth 
had  given  of  her  fruits,  and  lay  naked  and  empty, 
leaving  her  stubble-fields  to  the  turtle-doves,  who 
shared  the  gleaning  with  the  poor  women,  and,  like 
them,  sought  along  the  deep  furrows  pursued  by 
the  cries  from  the  famishing  nest.  The  threshing 
had  been  started  in  all  directions.  Beyond  the 
trees  could  be  heard  the  distant  throbbing  of  the 

199 


200  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

machine,  as  its  mournful  roar  swelled  and  fell, 
telling  abroad  all  the  lugubrious  history  of  the 
grain  from  stage  to  stage,  as  it  was  pushed,  pressed, 
twisted,  and  separated,  even  as  we  are,  the  grain 
to  one  side,  the  chaff  to  the  other. 

At  La  Geniviere  the  threshing  went  on  from 
early  dawn  till  evening,  and  the  people  of  the 
valley,  or  of  Fief  and  Villeneuve,  or  those  dwelling 
on  the  opposite  slopes,  said  to  each  other:  "It  is 
four  o'clock;  they  are  beginning  the  day's  work 
over  at  La  Geniviere;  they  are  stopping,  it  is 
noon."  Then  "they  are  starting  again;  it  must 
be  two  o'clock."  Under  the  August  sun,  which 
sent  the  blood  running  like  fire  through  the  veins, 
in  the  thick  of  the  dust  that  bronzed  their  necks, 
the  helpers  who  had  come  from  all  parts  at  the 
summons  from  Noellet,  thronged  the  threshing- 
floor.  There  were  relatives,  neighbouring  farmers, 
servants,  and  even  friends  who  had  nothing  to  do 
with  harvesting,  among  the  latter  being  the  little 
tailor  and  the  two  Fauvepres;  for  at  such  times 
of  entertainment  and  hurry,  every  one  is  ready  to 
lend  a  hand  and  to  turn  farmer  for  the  nonce. 

A  stream  of  ruddy  grain  poured  from  the 
threshing-machine.  Life  was  hidden  in  it,  and 
life  gave  it  greeting  and  multiplied  around  it. 
Women,  busy  with  rakes,  raked  up  the  grain;  four 
horses  harnessed  to  the  poles  of  the  pivot  went 
round  and  round ;  men  passed  and  re-passed,  carry- 
ing away  the  straw  or  bringing  fresh  sheaves  at  the 
end  of  their  blue  steel  reaping-hooks;  some  were 
occupied  with  destroying,  layer  by  layer,  the  huge 
piles  of  sheaves,  while  others,  up  to  their  knees 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  201 

in  the  new  golden  straw,  rose  with  the  growing 
stack ;  the  little  mill,  with  its  ceaseless  clack,  sent 
the  husk  flying  out  in  a  curve,  like  a  comet's  tail; 
above  them  all,  the  machine  with  its  cogged 
wheels  and  its  fly-wheels,  continued  to  turn,  the 
sound  of  voices  and  laughter,  and  of  the  neighing 
of  the  horses  excited  by  the  whip,  being  lost  in  its 
rumbling  clamour.  Everywhere  was  joy,  every- 
where the  intoxication  of  sound  and  movement. 
One  man  alone,  in  the  midst  of  the  universal 
excitement,  remained  impassive:  that  man  was 
Julien.  Standing  in  his  place  as  master,  near  the 
gaping  jaws  awaiting  to  grind  the  gathered  grain, 
he  received  the  sheaves,  untied  them  with  a  turn 
of  the  hand,  and  pushed  them,  with  the  ears  for- 
ward, up  the  inclined  plain.  The  dust  had  cov- 
ered him  from  head  to  foot,  and  even  his  hair  was 
white.  No  glimmer  of  light  came  into  his  sad 
eyes  as  he  looked  up.  He  went  through  his  task, 
finding  no  pleasure  in  it,  as  one  whose  thoughts  are 
elsewhere.  So  absent-minded  was  he,  that  at 
moments  he  forgot  to  feed  the  machine,  and  re- 
mained without  moving  with  his  head  fallen  on  to 
his  sunken  chest.  The  threshers  knew  what  had 
happened  by  the  sound  of  the  cylinders,  revolving 
empty,  and  those  around  him  cast  compassionate, 
sidelong  glances  at  the  farmer  of  La  Geniviere. 
They  did  not  stop  working,  but  for  a  minute  or 
two  the  joy  of  the  threshing-floor  was  interrupted. 


PART  THE  THIRD. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


To  Monsieur  Chdbersot,  Officer  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion, Honorary  Professor  of  the  University  of 
Fontainebleau. 

PARIS, 
June  IQth,  188—. 

MY  DEAR  MASTER  AND  FRIEND, 

It  will  soon  be  nearly  two  months  since  you  left 
Paris  and  retired  from  duty,  and  yet,  as  you  com- 
plain, I  have  not  yet  sent  you  the  beginning  of  the 
private  journal  which  I  promised.  Lay  the  blame 
on  the  laborious  life  I  lead,  on  the  overpowering 
heat,  on  my  trouble  at  Jacques'  death,  on  anything 
rather  than  on  my  forgetfulness.  Believe  me  when 
I  say,  that  I  have  not  for  one  moment  forgot- 
ten you.  On  the  contrary,  not  a  day  passes  but 
I  look  for  you  and  regret  your  absence.  Your 
near  presence  was  precious  to  me;  you  were  an 
adviser,  and  a  strength  to  which  I  could  always 
look  for  help.  You  saved  me  literally  from  starva- 
tion. As  long  as  I  exist,  I  can  never  forget  our 
first  meeting  on  that  winter  evening,  on  the  land- 
ing outside  our  rooms,  perched  up  near  the  sky, 

202 


et 


THIS,   MY   SO N"  203 


where  I  lived,  and  still  continue  to  live,  on  the 
Quai  du  Louvre.  You,  too,  may  remember  it, 
but  not  certainly  with  that  exactness  of  detail 
which  leaves  behind  a  feeling  of  comforted  sadness. 
And  what  suffering  I  was  in!  I  had  just  returned 
from  a  fruitless  tramp  from  place  to  place,  begging 
in  vain  for  one  of  the  cheap  posts  as  an  office- 
assistant  which  the  hungry  struggle  to  obtain;  I 
was  living  on  the  money  lent  me  by  Loutrel,  and, 
with  my  mind  on  the  rack,  working  for  a  doubtful 
degree.  I  saw  the  future,  which  I  had  thought 
held  such  prospect  for  me,  closing  in  upon  me, 
dark  and  stifling.  There  was  blacker  night  at  my 
heart  even  than  in  the  narrow  house  up  which  I 
was  climbing.  Just  as  I  had  reached  the  door  of 
my  room  a  figure  issued  from  the  one  opposite. 
I  knocked  against  it.  We  looked  at  one  another. 
At  the  first  glance  I  saw  that  I  had  to  do  with  a 
man  of  pleasant  temper.  He  was  not  angry  at 
my  clumsiness.  He  held  a  candle  in  his  hand,  the 
light  from  which  flickered  over  his  bald  forehead. 
My  neighbour  appeared  to  me  very  tall  and  very 
old,  with  his  short,  round,  snow-white  beard,  and, 
above  all,  very  kindly,  for  instead  of  answering 
my  stammered  excuses,  he  looked  at  me,  and 
guessed  all  my  hidden  agony,  my  desolation,  and 
the  need  I  was  in  of  assistance.  Any  other  man 
would,  after  a  moment  of  barren  sympathy,  have 
passed  on  and  left  me.  This  one  stopped  to  ques- 
tion me,  and  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  kept  me  under 
the  fire  of  his  candle  and  of  his  professional  eye, 
and  when  he  understood  that  I  was  wishing  to 
devote  myself  to  letters,  and  that  I  was  working 


204  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

up  for  my  degree  by  myself  and  under  discourage- 
ment, he  said  with  the  best  smile  that  had  been 
given  me  by  any  one  outside  my  family,  "We  shall 
see  more  of  each  other,  my  young  friend." 

And,  in  truth,  my  dear  master,  we  did  see  each 
other  again,  every  day  and  for  many  hours  a  day. 
You  resumed  with  me  the  work  of  teacher  which 
you  had  elsewhere  given  up;  you  poured  out  for 
me  all  your  treasures  of  scientific  knowledge,  of 
patience,  and  of  severity.  In  the  simplicity  of 
my  heart,  I  believed  that  you  were  preparing  me 
for  my  degree ;  it  was,  however,  the  journalist  that 
you  were  arming.  Your  practical  common-sense 
soon  convinced  me  of  the  vanity  of  my  scholarly 
ambitions.  A  Master  of  Arts!  A  doctor!  And 
I  in  need  of  bread!  The  longing  for  these  titles 
passed  away  when  you  said  to  me  one  day: 

"Write  an  article!" 

"On  what?" 

"On  the  book  that  has  just  appeared." 

"But,  Monsieur,  it  is  by  one  of  the  Members  of 
the  Institute." 

"The  more  reason  you  should  write." 

"What  will  you  do  with  it?" 

' '  Never  mind ;  write . ' ' 

The  article  being  finished,  corrected,  and  thanks 
to  you,  accepted  by  a  first-class  paper  that  had  its 
officers  near  the  Quai  du  Louvre,  do  you  remember, 
how,  with  the  eager  longing  of  a  shipwrecked  man, 
I  watched  each  day  for  my  two  initials,  as  for  the 
sails  of  the  vessel  that  was  to  bear  me  into  harbour? 
That  first  article,  once  published,  others  followed. 
And  then,  when  you  thought  that  my  powers  had 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  205 

been  sufficiently  and  satisfactorily  tested,  the 
same  friend  who  had  already  done  so  much  for  me, 
negotiated  for  my  engagement  on  the  Don  Juan. 

And  then  I,  shy  and  timid  as  I  was,  I  who  till 
then  had  kept  from  you  the  secret  of  my  life,  made 
a  full  confession.  How  many  hours  did  it  last, 
that  walk  along  the  avenue  of  the  Champs-Elysees, 
under  the  chestnut-trees  with  their  pyramid-like 
blossoms  already  pointing  upward,  like  little  pink 
and  white  fir-trees,  in  the  warm,  spring  sunshine? 

How  many?  As  many  as  it  took  to  tell  all  my 
tale.  You  listened  with  the  untiring  patience  of 
those  who  love.  You  scolded  me  gently,  not  too 
harshly,  for  fear  I  should  lose  my  trust  in  you. 
You  acted  as  my  father  would  have  acted,  I  am 
sure,  if  he  could  have  understood  a  confession  of 
this  kind  from  me.  Poor,  cherished  secret,  known 
only  to  one  other  besides  you,  to  Melie  Rainette, 
the  weaver  of  Fief-Sauvin,  a  countrywoman  of 
mine,  who  wears  a  brave  heart  under  her  white 
linen  bodice.  When,  in  the  long  talks  we  had 
together,  as  I  walked  beside  you,  I  told  you  of  it, 
you  used  to  shake  your  head.  "  Madness,"  you 
would  say,  "  madness."  But  you  were  not  cruel 
enough  to  crush  my  hopes  with  a  discouraging 
word. 

Give  me  leave,  then,  to  speak  to  you  about  it 
again.  The  more  I  think  about  this  love  that  has 
taken  possession  of  me,  the  more  I  feel  that  it  is 
unlike  any  other.  Young  men  of  family,  as  they 
call  themselves,  who  are  born  among  the  surround- 
ings that  suffice  them,  know  nothing  of  this  youth- 
ful ambition  which  made  me  separate  myself  from 


206  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

my  own.  They  have  only  to  live  and  to  let  life 
carry  them  along;  their  youth  is  untroubled  by 
strife  or  dissimulation;  they  enjoy  it  to  the  full, 
and  while  still  young  their  path  in  life  is  settled  for 
them,  and  they  know  what  is  to  be  their  destiny, 
what  money  they  will  have,  and  in  what  style  they 
will  be  able  to  live ;  then  they  begin  to  look  round 
to  see  who  shall  share  the  fortune  they  now  enjoy. 
They  reflect  carefully  before  making  their  choice. 
But  I !  I  was  born  at  her  feet,  on  the  land  that  was 
impregnated  with  her  name,  and  that  spoke  of  it 
to  me,  coupled  with  that  of  my  parents;  her  house, 
her  woods,  her  fields  were  the  first  horizon  that  I 
knew;  and  she  herself  first  awakened  my  admira- 
tion and  my  sense  of  a  way  of  life  differing  from 
that  at  La  Geniviere.  Through  her  I  had  a  glimpse 
into  a  world  that  was  new  to  me,  and  while  I  was 
still  too  young  to  love  her  in  the  way  I  do  now,  I 
yet  loved  her  for  the  wealth,  the  beauty,  the  elegant 
splendour  of  life  which  she  represented. 

And  so  little  by  little  I  became  attached  to  her 
by  the  two  dominant  passions  of  man's  heart — 
ambition  and  love.  I  looked  to  her  as  to  the  su- 
preme goal  of  my  existence — she  was  to  be  the 
dazzling  reward  to  which  I  should  one  day  attain. 
It  was  owing  to  her  influence  that  I  first  made  the 
tremendous  efforts  which  were  required  to  raise 
myself,  but  soon  I  continued  them  for  love  of  her. 

Confess  that  I  must  indeed  have  loved  her  to 
have  sacrificed  so  many  things  for  her  sake!  Affec- 
tions which  can  never  be  replaced,  friendships,  my 
Vendee  that  I  see  ever  as  a  picture  before  my  eyes, 
and  peace — the  peace  that  without  doubt  would 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  207 

have  been  mine  if  I  had  remained  among  my  own 
people — upright,  unambitious  men  and  women, 
who  have  no  desire  beyond  a  rainy  spring  and  a 
stormless  summer. 

June  20th. 

Monsieur  Laubriet  and  his  family  are  no  longer 
here,  as  perhaps  you  know;  they  will  stay  on  at 
Landehue  until  November. 

And  here,  in  this  great  Paris,  I  remain  alone, 
without  relations,  without  friends — for  Loutrel, 
although  we  still  live  under  the  same  roof  is  not 
now  to  be  counted  among  the  latter — and  recall 
all  the  memories  of  the  bitter  winter  and  of  the 
kindlier  spring,  which  have  just  gone  by.  I  see 
more  clearly  the  obstacles,  the  social  disparity 
which  separates  me  from  the  Laubriet  family; 
I  know  myself,  and  I  know  them  better  now.  I 
was  conscious,  no  doubt,  even  from  the  time  I  was 
a  child,  that  there  was  this  distance  between  us. 
But  what  then?  I  imagined,  boy  as  I  then  was, 
that  when  I  had  once  taken  my  bachelor's  degree 
I  should  have  half-way  covered  it,  and  that  it  was 
quite  enough  to  know  a  little  Latin  to  become  one 
of  their  set.  Since  that  time  I  have  learnt  to 
understand  that  I  am  hardly  nearer  to  them  than 
I  was  before,  and  that  there  is  still  a  long,  very 
long,  almost  interminable  distance  between  us. 
Two  things  have  helped  me  to  take  the  measure 
of  it.  First,  the  smile  in  your  eyes  when  I  said 
to  you:  " Mademoiselle  Madeleine  is  rich;  her 
mother  belongs  to  the  nobility;  her  father  has  a 
country  house  in  Vended."  But  a  deeper  and 


208  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

even  keener  sense  of  the  truth  than  that  impressed 
on  me  by  your  kindly  scepticism  came  to  me  when 
I  saw  them. 

It  was  in  February,  the  16th  day  of  the  month, 
when  I  first  met  Monsieur  Laubriet.  The  next 
day,  according  to  his  invitation,  I  rang  at  the  door 
of  their  house  in  the  Rue  La  Boetie.  "Come  to- 
morrow morning"  had  been  his  words  to  me,  "you 
are  sure  to  find  me  in."  I  went  therefore  in  the 
morning,  at  the  hour  which  most  society  men  con- 
secrate to  business  and  correspondence.  All  the 
old  shyness  and  fear  of  my  youth  came  over  me 
again.  How  poorly  I  was  dressed !  My  overcoat 
had  been  frozen  to  my  back  or  wet  through  so 
many  times!  The  haughty  demeanour  of  the 
servants  made  me  feel  ashamed.  The  footman 
hesitated  to  show  me  upstairs.  "Just  fancy,  this 
young  Noellet!  Think  of  putting  oneself  out  for 
such  a  nobody!  It  is  very  kind  of  Monsieur  to 
see  him!"  And  I  have  asked  myself  since  why 
he  did  invite  me.  I  think  it  was  partly  out  of 
natural  kindness  of  heart,  partly  for  my  parents' 
sake,  and  partly  from  some  little  feeling  of  the 
claim  made  upon  him  by  his  position.  It  would 
never  have  done  for  a  landed  proprietor  like  him- 
self to  let  a  child  from  his  own  parish,  born  within 
the  radius  of  his  own  grounds,  and,  moreover, 
a  godson,  live  or  die  in  Paris  without  troubling 
himself  to  look  after  him  at  all.  His  honour  as  a 
lord  of  the  manor  required  that  he  should  take 
me  in  hand.  I  made  part  of  his  social  duties. 

I  cannot  deny  that  he  fulfilled  them  with  affa- 
bility. I  found  him  in  his  study,  seated  at  his 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  209 

desk  in  his  working  coat,  surrounded  by  heavy 
hangings  and  works  of  art  that  allowed  no  entrance 
to  the  outside  noise  and  glare,  and  he  gave  me  the 
most  cordial  greeting.  I  interrupted  him  in  his 
work,  but  he  was  careful  not  to  allow  this  to  ap- 
pear. He  was  simple  and  friendly  in  his  manner 
toward  me,  scarcely  betraying  the  effort  he  made 
to  talk  of  things  which  might  interest  a  man  as 
young,  and  as  unfavourably  placed,  and  as  much 
a  stranger  as  I  was  to  all  his  occupations  and  his 
daily  habit  of  thought.  Once  or  twice,  in  veiled 
terms,  he  even  delicately  offered  the  pecuniary 
assistance  of  which  I  stood  so  greatly  hi  need,  but 
which  I,  nevertheless,  refused.  He  tried  to  en- 
courage me,  advised  what  he  thought  would  help 
me  in  the  future,  what  post  to  try  for,  with  the 
best  desire  in  the  world  to  help  me,  but  with  a 
total  ignorance  of  that  terrible  struggle  for  exist- 
ence in  which  I  had  already  lost  much  of  my 
courage.  He  invited  me  to  come  and  see  him 
again. 

But  how  could  he  prevent  me  looking  and  feeling 
awkward?  I  was  terribly  ill  at  ease  with  him, 
and  in  spite  of  all  things  he  was  somewhat  so  with 
me  also.  There  was  that  shadow  of  embarrass- 
ment between  us  of  which  two  people  of  different 
stations  become  painfully  conscious  when  they 
have  exhausted  the  commonplaces  of  conversa- 
tion. No  refinement  of  breeding  can  entirely 
hide  it. 

You  cannot  imagine  the  state  of  torment  I  was 
in,  caused  by  these  first  interviews,  by  this  repeti- 
tion of  the  same  questions,  which  I  knew  stood 


210  "THIS,   MY   SON'7 

between  me  and  intimacy.  More  than  once  I  told 
myself  not  to  go  there  again.  And  still  I  went, 
urged  by  the  persistent  spirit  of  my  race,  and 
having  in  the  interval  repaired  the  unseen  rents 
of  my  soul,  whence  my  dream  escaped. 

Then  I  became  a  journalist. 

Immediately  a  change  took  place  in  our  rela- 
tions. I  became  rather  more  self-assured;  I  had 
a  coat,  a  certain  amount  of  news,  the  title  of  jour- 
nalist, which,  although  somewhat  vague,  was  never- 
theless a  passport  for  me.  I  was  now  presentable. 
The  drawing-room  door  was  set  half-open  for  me. 
Up  to  that  time  my  visits  to  Monsieur  Laubriet 
had  always  taken  place  in  the  morning;  now,  with 
other  friends  of  the  family,  I  was  invited  to  spend 
the  evening.  Once  more  I  saw  Madame  Laubriet, 
Mademoiselle  Madeleine,  Marthe,  and,  thanks  may- 
be to  the  latter,  who  continued  to  be  obliging  and 
attentive  in  her  treatment  of  me,  I  received  two 
more  invitations  to  the  Rue  La  Boe'tie  during 
the  month  of  April,  the  last  of  their  sojourn  in 
Paris. 

There  I  was  able  to  study  the  Laubriet  family 
amid  their  fine  surroundings,  and  in  their  true 
light.  Ah,  my  friend,  how  right  you  were  to 
smile,  as  I  learnt  to  know  too  well  after  this 
further  advance.  I  found  Monsieur  Laubriet  as 
kind  as  ever  in  his  reception  of  me,  and  with  the 
same  lordliness  of  manner  which  is  so  embarrassing 
to  a  poor  young  man  like  myself.  He  was  pleased 
to  speak  of  me  to  his  friends  as  his  godson,  and 
this  title  alone  was  sufficient  to  make  them  draw 
mute  comparisons  which  sent  the  colour  into  my 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  211 

face.  On  one  of  these  three  evenings,  so  deeply 
noted  in  my  memory,  he  drew  my  arm  through 
his  and  led  me  into  the  smoking-room. 

"Well,  Pierre,"  he  said,  "and  what  news  at  the 
Don  Juan?" 

But  it  needed  nothing  more  than  the  inimitable 
way  in  which  he  lighted  his  cigarette  to  dispel  any 
illusion  on  my  part  of  equality  between  us,  even 
if  such  an  idea  had  entered  my  head. 

Madame  Laubriet  is,  in  the  same  way,  not  ex- 
actly haughty.  She  represents  to  perfection  the  old 
landed  aristocracy  of  our  part  of  the  world.  She 
remains  a  Vende*ean  here  in  the  middle  of  Paris, 
belongs  to  the  parish  of  Fief-Sauvin  before  that  of 
Saint-PhiUippe-du-Roule,  and  is  marvellously  well 
up  in  the  history  of  the  local  wars  in  which  her 
relations  took  part.  She  still  considers  the  peas- 
ants as  attached  in  some  kind  of  honourable 
serfdom  to  the  land.  To  break  away  from  it 
would  be  to  sink.  She  will  never  be  capable  of 
understanding  what  I  have  done.  A  journalist, 
though  gifted  with  all  the  intellect  and  talent 
imaginable,  is  to  her  like  a  musician,  somebody 
who  plays  something  for  money.  The  natural 
bent  of  her  mind  is  toward  the  country;  it  is 
palpable  that  when  looking  upon  me  she  sees  La 
Geniviere,  and  she  receives  me  with  the  dignified 
smile  of  which  my  remembrance  dates  back  to  the 
days  of  my  childhood. 

And,  you  will  ask,  what  of  Madeleine? 

My  hermit  friend,  you  who  have  never  seen  her, 
and  probably,  hidden  away  as  you  are  in  your 
woods  at  Fontainebleau,  will  not  see  her  for  a  long 


212  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

time,  picture  to  yourself  a  tall  young  girl,  with 
golden-brown  hair,  with  a  slender  neck  supporting 
a  head  that  has  a  certain  haughtiness  of  pose  about 
it.  The  features  are  marked,  and  just  a  little  too 
large,  as  with  all  the  Ponthual  family.  The  eyes, 
which  are  gray,  have  an  habitual  expression  of  a 
kind  of  absent-minded  indifference,  but  if  any- 
thing pleases  her,  or  any  one  makes  an  original 
remark,  or  some  one  she  likes  or  is  bo'red  by  comes 
in  and  rouses  Mademoiselle  Laubriet  from  her 
demi-slumber,  then  they  become  animated  and 
turn  a  dark  green,  their  glance  at  times  imperious, 
at  times  soft  and  smiling.  Her  eyes  impart  a 
superb  look  to  her  of  intellectual  beauty  and 
animation.  She  knows  it,  and  amuses  herself  with 
the  effect  produced  by  these  abrupt  changes  of 
expression  on  those  who  contemplate  her  for  the 
first  time.  I  have  never  known  her  respond  to  an 
insipidity,  but  I  have  seen  her  smile  at  a  bold  or 
clever  hit.  If  a  clever  man  enters  the  room,  you 
may  be  sure  that  five  minutes  later  she  will  be 
talking  or  listening  to  him.  Intellect  exercises 
a  sort  of  fascination  over  her.  It  is  by  that  means 
alone  that  I  can  approach  her.  I  shall  work,  I 
shall  achieve,  I  shall  surround  her  with  my  grow- 
ing reputation.  When  she  hears  of  my  successful 
articles,  or  of  a  volume  of  verse,  in  which,  although 
her  name  will  not  occur,  she  will  be  celebrated 
throughout;  when  I  shall  have  made  myself  a 
position  among  men  of  letters;  then  perhaps  she 
will  say  to  herself:  "It  is  for  my  sake,  forme"; 
then  perhaps,  estimating  the  magnitude  of  the 
effort,  she  will  feel  touched  by  it. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  213 

She  is  proud  with  others,  but  simple  and  natural 
with  me.  She  has  not  changed  at  all.  I  find  her 
the  same  as  in  the  days  when  I,  running  out  of 
La  Geniviere,  would  meet  her  coming  from  Lande- 
hue  with  her  nurse,  and  she  would  say  to  me: 
"Pierre,  have  you  found  something  for  me  to  play 
with  to-day?"  and  then  following  me  to  the  side 
of  the  ditch,  while  I  pushed  aside  the  brambles, 
scratching  my  hands  and  face  with  the  thorns,  she, 
as  fair-haired  then  as  a  little  fairy,  would  lean  her 
head  over,  safe  from  injury,  to  look  at  three  blue 
eggs  inside  a  nest. 

When  will  she  be  less  natural  with  me?  When 
shall  I  no  longer  be  for  her  only  Pierre  Noellet  of 
La  Geniviere? 

Of  La  Geniviere!  How  difficult  it  will  be  to 
forget  that! 

Hear  me  further.  When  Monsieur  Laubriet 
presented  me  to  one  of  his  friends — I  except  artists, 
who,  even  if  they  boast  of  one  themselves,  think 
little  of  people's  origins — I  could  declare  that  I 
read  in  their  eyes  at  the  first  moment  a  lively 
desire  to  become  acquainted  with  me;  the  hand 
would  be  cordially  held  out,  and  the  whole  manner 
friendly.  "Monsieur  Pierre  Noellet!"  It  really 
seemed  that  I  was  missing  among  the  list  of  his 
connections.  If  Monsieur  Laubriet  added, ' '  On  the 
staff  of  the  Don  Juan"  a  shade  of  difference  hi  the 
expression  was  visible,  but  disappeared  again;  but 
if  he  had  the  misfortune  to  proceed  with  "from 
Fief-Sauvin,"  "Ah,  I  see!"  replied  the  other,  and  a 
slight  curl  at  the  corner  of  the  lips  told  me  that 
sentence  had  been  passed  upon  me. 


214  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

June  25th. 

I  went  to  the  Salon  yesterday;  I  was  tired,  and 
sat  down  on  one  of  the  couches.  Lifting  my  eyes, 
I  discovered  high  up  in  one  corner  of  the  room 
a  little  picture,  so  lost  to  view  near  the  ceiling,  and 
so  modest  in  its  dimensions,  that  only  one  out  of  a 
thousand  had  probably  noticed  it.  What  was  the 
subject,  you  ask?  A  woman,  half -draped  in  float- 
ing garments,  looking  at  herself  in  a  pool  of  water. 
There  was  no  great  imagination  displayed,  but  the 
landscape,  the  sky,  were  exquisitely  fresh,  with  the 
leaves  blowing  in  the  wind,  the  water  asleep  and 
smiling  like  an  infant;  it  was  the  work  of  quite  a 
young  artist.  And  I  felt  a  pity  for  the  one  who 
had  painted  it;  some  unknown  man,  poor,  no 
doubt,  lost  and  thrust  aside  among  the  crowd  of 
upstarts  and  proteges.  He  had  worked  at  it  a 
long  time,  had  put  all  his  heart,  his  dreams,  and 
a  great  hope,  into  his  picture ;  and  they  had  hung 
it  up  there,  three  yards  above  the  floor,  where  none 
had  seen  it.  He  had  been  so  pleased  at  having  it 
accepted!  In  a  few  days'  time  he  will  come  and 
take  down  his  picture,  which  has  obtained  neither 
purchaser  or  medal.  His  studio  will  seem  sad  to 
him,  and  life  a  burden. 

But  of  what  does  he  complain?  Has  he  not 
figured  in  the  same  Salon  with  the  most  renowned 
and  the  most  successful? 

July  2d. 

Arsene  Loutrel  has  left  me  and  taken  rooms  in 
the  Latin  Quarter,  under  pretence  of  being  nearer 
the  school,  which  is  a  mere  joke  on  his  part.  A 


"THIS,   MY  SON'7  215 

cool  separation  prevented  an  open  rupture.  The 
relations  between  us  had  become  strained  since 
he  insisted  on  the  immediate  repayment  of  the 
money  he  had  lent.  His  father  may  feel  happy, 
for  the  lessons  he  inculcated  into  his  son  at  a 
tender  age  were  understood,  and  have  been  re- 
membered. Two  and  two  made  five;  I  paid  a 
heavy  interest  to  a  college  friend,  and  we  ex- 
changed quittances  when  we  shook  hands  for  the 
last  time. 

I  am  keeping  on  the  rooms  of  our  fourth  floor 
for  myself.  They  remind  me  of  my  first  months, 
yours  especially,  and  moreover  I  am  not  rich, 
although  I  have  on  my  cards  "On  the  Don  Juan"; 
and  then  the  place  pleases  me.  From  LoutrePs 
room,  which  is  now  mine,  over  the  plane-trees 
along  the  Quai,  I  can  see  the  Seine,  the  Pont  Neuf, 
and  its  small  green  island,  the  sluice,  and  all  the 
old  Paris  of  the  city,  which  you  and  I  used  to  look 
at  together,  and  which  you  explained  to  me  during 
that  hardworking  and  unhappy  winter,  which  yet 
had  its  brighter  hours. 

I  work  there  all  the  morning;  I  read,  I  write 
articles  which  will  be  refused  by  L4once  Gay  or  by 
Thie*nard,  the  two  principal  editors  of  the  Don 
Juan.  I  know  beforehand  that  they  will  not  be 
accepted;  but  I  grow  obstinate,  and  continue  to 
write.  I  have  in  me  the  perseverance  of  the 
farmer,  who  will  go  on  putting  seeds  into  the  same 
furrow  until  the  blade  begins  to  sprout  or  the 
season  is  too  advanced.  I  try  my  hand  in  all  sorts 
of  ways,  trying  to  vary  both  subjects  and  style. 
At  one  o'clock  I  make  my  way  toward  the  Rue 


216  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

Caumartin.  I  go  upstairs  to  the  editor's  office, 
and  find  none  but  the  porter,  who  says  to  me: 
"Here  is  Monsieur  Noellet,  coming  to  prepare  his 
'Review  of  the  Press.'"  Mon  Dieu,  yes;  fifty 
papers  are  awaiting  me,  folded,  and  piled  in  rect- 
angular pyramids.  But  first  of  all  I  half-open  the 
door  of  Leonce  Gay's  office,  and  slip  one  of  my 
articles  under  the  rock-crystal  statuette  of  a 
woman,  which  serves  him  as  paper-weight;  I  do 
the  same  in  Thie"nard's  room,  putting  my  second 
article  under  his  bronze  dog. 

Then  to  work — Paris,  the  provinces.  I  have  to 
read  every  word — and  it  is  no  light  task — to  rip 
up  the  papers  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  classify  the 
cuttings,  political  comments  on  one  side,  events  of 
various  kinds  on  the  other;  after  that  to  fasten 
together  the  first  lines  of  passages  that  may  on 
necessity  be  transposed:  "The  Jmtice  is  severe 
on  the  speech  made  by  the  President  of  the 
Council";  "The  Intransigeant  is  merciless";  "Is 
not  the  Figaro  in  the  right  when  it  says" ;  "Let  us 
now  see  what  the  Abeille  Savoisienne  says."  By 
the  help  of  two  wafers  and  a  slip  of  paper  the  little 
black  and  white  squares  arrange  themselves  in  line, 
like  so  many  dominoes.  I  little  thought  in  the  old 
days  that  it  was  in  this  way  one  made  one's  debut 
in  the  world  of  letters.  After  dinner  I  return  for 
the  evening  papers.  Toward  eight  o'clock  the 
offices  begin  to  show  signs  of  life.  From  the  farther 
end  of  the  general  office — where  I  am  still  alone — 
I  can  see  the  contributors  coming  in  one  by  one, 
smoking  the  ends  of  their  cigars,  and  with  their 
copy  in  their  pockets.  Where  have  they  written 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  217 

their  little  column,  divided  by  its  three  asterisks 
into  its  tripping  paragraphs?  Was  it  at  home,  at 
the  cafe",  or  at  the  theatre?  The  Don  Juan  gets 
written  out  at  random.  During  the  daytime,  only 
I  and  the  porter  are  to  be  seen  on  the  premises. 
From  eight  o'clock  till  midnight  there  is  Thie'nard, 
the  man  journal,  who  fills  up  all  the  blanks,  cuts 
into  the  remainder,  gives  the  Don  Juan  its  own 
particular  configuration,  revises  the  proofs,  does 
the  work  of  four,  and  gambles  on  the  Stock 
Exchange.  All  the  others  go  and  come.  "  Good- 
evening,  Thienard.  I  have  brought  my  news- 
column — my  echoes — my  society  notes — my  the- 
atrical notices";  " Good-evening,  Thienard.  Have 
you  room  for  a  puff  in  the  second  page?";  "I  say, 
Thienard,  do  you  know  about  that  affair  of  little 
X.?  It  beats  everything!  Just  you  fancy" — and 
the  door  closes  upon  them.  This  last  set  of  people 
are  not  on  the  regular  staff.  They  are  news- 
mongers, who  go  on  to  the  boulevards  as  soon  as  it 
is  dark,  pleased  to  be  allowed  admittance  to  a 
newspaper  so  well  spoken  of  by  the  public  and 
easy  of  access,  every  whisper  of  the  green-room 
being  exaggerated  by  them  so  as  to  make  them- 
selves of  importance,  and  who,  in  exchange,  obtain 
information  about  the  races  or  the  source  of  a 
telegram  lying  about  on  the  tables.  It  is  a  con- 
tinual passing  to  and  fro.  The  proofs  arrive  from 
the  printers;  the  telephone  rings  incessantly; 
Leonce  Gay,  the  reverse  altogether  of  Thie'nard, 
who  never  stirs  from  his  office,  runs  from  one  to 
the  other.  He  is  all  in  all  to  everybody.  He  has 
the  air  of  an  officer,  like  Thienard,  but  nothing 


218  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

of  the  latter's  heavy  cavalry  style,  dark  and 
austere,  groaning  over  his  work  like  a  grumbling 
wood-cutter;  he  is  the  pretty  lieutenant,  fair,  pink- 
coloured,  laughing,  a  good  fellow  and  a  bad  lot, 
who  can  talk  well,  and  say  witty  things,  who 
writes  as  he  talks,  and  is  never  put  out  of  counte- 
nance, never  taken  by  surprise,  and  apparently 
never  in  a  hurry. 

I  sit  alone  at  the  end  of  the  green  table,  under 
my  shade,  in  the  midst  of  this  turmoil  of  men  and 
things,  hidden  behind  my  evening  papers,  which 
I  unfold,  one  by  one,  as  I  did  the  morning  ones. 
The  whirlwind  rushes  past  me,  but  does  not  dis- 
turb me.  Who  would  trouble  to  bother  himself 
about  a  common  labourer,  at  two  hundred  francs 
a  month,  busy  earning  his  livelihood  with  a  pair 
of  scissors? 

On  certain  days  I  see  many  men,  well  known  in 
the  world  of  politics  and  letters,  with  whom  all  the 
others  are  acquainted.  I  ask  their  names.  They 
might  be  of  service  to  me,  but  if  I  am  still  ambi- 
tious as  ever  my  self-confidence  has  abated  and  I 
do  not  dare  accost  them.  No  one  thinks  of  offer- 
ing to  introduce  a  beginner  like  myself  to  them. 

And  so  I  remain  stationary  behind  my  screen 
of  papers. 

By  the  time  I  have  stuck  my  last  wafer  it  is  still 
pretty  early.  I  rise,  and,  before  leaving  the  build- 
ing, I  manage  to  get  hold  of  Le*once  Gay. 

"Have  you  read  my  article?" 

"Of  course  I  have." 

"Well?" 

"Not  Parisian  enough." 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  219 

I  knock  at  Thie*nard's  door;  he  is  talking  to 
three  other  persons,  and  reading  the  proofs  of  the 
first  page,  just  wet  from  the  printers,  and  falling 
limply  over  his  hand  like  a  handkerchief. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"The  article  that  I " 

"I  will  look  at  it  to-morrow;  no  room  for  any- 
thing more  to-day." 

To-morrow!  I  do  not  know  when  that  will  be. 
And  so  I  go  out  and  let  myself  be  borne  along  by 
the  crowd — lonely,  lost,  despairing,  struggling  to 
recover  myself,  to  clutch  at  some  vague  hope  of 
my  own  amid  this  multitude,  with  its  cupidities, 
its  lurking  passions,  its  hidden  aims,  that  throngs 
and  elbows  me. 

You,  my  forest-ranger  at  peace,  free  of  heart 
and  resting  from  life's  labour — you  who  open  your 
window  in  the  evening  to  let  in  the  woodland 
breeze — you  will  understand  what  I  am  going  to 
say.  When  as  a  lad,  living  in  the  Mauges,  my 
hard  day's  work  being  over,  I  stood  up  and  put  on 
my  jacket  to  return  home,  where  supper  was 
awaiting  me,  what  deep  full  draughts  of  air  I 
used  to  inhale!  How  they  seemed  to  rejoice  my 
very  heart.  I  do  not  regret  the  land.  It  is  home 
for  which  I  long! 

September  25th. 

How  curiously  these  prolonged  meditations 
affect  one's  mind !  Now  when  I  examine  my  past 
life  it  seems  new  to  me.  All  kinds  of  minor  events 
of  which  I  hardly  took  any  notice  at  the  time,  or 
words  harboured  in  the  peaceful  memory  of  a 


220  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

child,  assume  a  meaning  now  which  hitherto  was 
wanting  to  them ;  and  my  early  youth  itself,  that 
period  of  perfect  purity  and  innocence,  before  La 
Geniviere  knew  of  an  ungrateful  child,  seems  full, 
in  looking  back,  of  the  ideas  and  dreams  which 
disturb  the  man  of  twenty. 

Formerly,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  they  began 
their  hunting,  and  we  our  ploughing.  Ah,  my 
dear  old  master,  you  can  never  know  the  strange 
feeling  that  would  take  possession  of  me,  the 
young  peasant,  as  I  saw  her  riding  along  beside 
her  father  on  her  gray  pony.  It  was  not  love; 
it  was  pride — pride  at  belonging  to  the  same  par- 
ish, to  her  neighbourhood,  to  those  whom  she 
knew  and  recognized.  For  she  never  failed  in  her 
greeting,  and  would  nod  her  pretty  head  to  us  and 
our  oxen  over  the  hedge.  My  father  would  lift 
his  hat,  and  take  no  further  notice  of  them.  But 
I  used  to  look  after  the  cavalcade  as  it  trotted 
along  to  the  meet  in  the  soft  pale  dawn.  And 
often  my  father  would  have  to  call  out  to  me: 
"See,  boy,  Nobiais  is  going  aside;  look  after  him." 
On  those  days  I  generally  felt  no  inclination  to 
sing,  but  I  thought  about  college. 

October  13tk. 

The  days  fly  by.  Madeleine  will  soon  be  back. 
I  ought  to  be  happy,  but  I  am  not. 

I  dread  seeing  her  again.  It  is  now  nearly  six 
months  since  she  left  Paris,  and  she  has  since  been 
at  Landehue,  or  travelling.  I  have  had  no  news 
of  her  all  that  time.  Six  months!  What  unfore- 
seen events  may  not  have  happened  in  that  in- 


a 


THIS,   MY  SON"  221 


terval!  How  many  things  unknown  to  me  have 
helped  to  separate  us  —  all  that  she  has  seen, 
thought,  and  heard!  The  compassionate,  and, 
even  then,  hesitating  kindness  of  the  family  by 
which  I  profited,  will  it  not  have  grown  cold,  have 
evaporated?  In  the  country  from  which  I  am 
a  deserter,  there  are  not  wanting  those  who  are 
ready  to  give  me  a  bad  character.  Nearly  all  my 
old  friends  have  separated  themselves  from  me, 
and  there  is  not  one  of  them,  you  may  be  sure,  who 
would  have  been  kind  enough  to  enhance  her  good 
opinion  of  me.  Even  my  very  parents  speak  ill 
of  me. 

In  Paris,  the  surroundings  in  which  she  sees  me 
help  to  blind  her  to  my  real  position;  here  I  am 
the  journalist,  the  writer,  the  man  who  may  some 
day  make  a  name.  But  down  there,  my  vacant 
place  beside  the  home  hearth  would  recall  the 
peasant  to  her.  The  roads,  the  fields,  the  shady 
masses  of  the  oak  trees,  the  blue  distance  she 
looks  out  upon  from  her  window,  all  have  voices 
for  her;  she  has  seen  me  with  a  goad  in  my  hand 
and  a  book  under  my  arm,  bringing  home  the 
beasts.  Will  they  not  remind  her  of  it?  I  dread 
the  treachery  of  everything  she  looks  upon  down 
there,  for  although  I  experience  an  infinite  pleasure 
in  recalling  Madeleine  as  a  child,  I  would  that  my 
childhood  were  unknown  to  her,  or  that  she  could 
forget  it. 


November 

Having  finished  at  the  office  earlier  than  usual 
this  afternoon,  I  went  to  the  Bois.    I  was  walking 


222  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

along  one  of  the  paths  enjoying  the  beauty  of  the 
day,  and  soothed  by  the  incessant  rumbling  of  the 
traffic  and  by  the  rattling  of  the  horses'  bridle- 
chains  as  they  shook  their  heads.  Women,  just 
returned  to  Paris,  drove  past  in  open  landaus  in 
spite  of  the  cold  wind  and  the  yellow  leaves. 
Winter  is  bringing  back  the  householders.  Fur 
garments  overflowed  the  carriage  doors  with  their 
armorial  bearings.  It  was  the  first  drive  through 
the  Bois,  a  day  of  festivity,  with  a  succession  of 
pretty  toilettes  and  smiles,  of  waving  hands  and 
of  mute  greetings  from  one  carriage  to  another. 
The  women  felt  themselves  once  more  Parisians, 
back  again  amid  the  elegant  luxury  of  the  great 
city,  and  even  the  Bois  itself  was  in  a  good 
humour  at  having  recaptured  its  company. 

Suddenly  I  saw  two  tall  forms,  two  toques,  each 
trimmed  with  a  pointed  feather.  As  they  passed 
I  recognized  Marthe  and  Madeleine  Laubriet. 
They  had  not  seen  me ;  they  had  driven  past  with 
their  high-stepping  horses,  their  two  erect  figures 
seated  side  by  side  in  the  landau,  both  looking  as 
fresh  as  if  just  returned  from  the  country,  and 
with  their  eyes  partly  lowered  as  they  faced  the 
low  rays  of  the  sun  slanting  through  the  trees. 
Unknown  to  themselves  they  carried  my  thoughts 
along  with  them,  for  I  followed  them  with  my 
eyes  until  they  turned  the  far  comer  of  the  avenue, 
and  then  beyond  into  the  dream  in  which  vision 
prolongs  itself. 

On  my  return  to  my  rooms  I  scribbled  an  article, 
under  the  heading,  "A  First  Afternoon  in  the 
Bois."  My  pen  seemed  to  write  of  itself.  I  wrote 


t 


THIS,   MY   SON"  223 


with  my  happiness,  and  with  that  spark  of  emotion 
of  which  something  always  remains  behind,  like 
a  faded  flower  between  the  leaves  of  a  book. 

Leonce  Gay  read  thirty  lines  of  it : 

"You've  hit  it  this  time." 

"Will  it  be  put  in?" 

"To-morrow  morning." 

November  llth. 

Early  next  morning  I  received  a  telegram-card 
from  Thienard:  "Philips  is  ill.  Take  his  place 
at  the  Senate  House.  I  will  see  to  the  review." 
So  I  started  for  the  Luxembourg,  where  I  was  to 
act  as  reporter  instead  of  Philips.  You  know  the 
upstairs  gallery,  dear  master,  where  the  senatorial 
clientele  waits  under  the  usher's  eye — friends,  peti- 
tioners, constituents,  all  wanting  orders  of  ad- 
mittance for  the  sitting.  I  was  there  talking  with 
a  colleague  of  the  Press,  when,  guess  whom  I  came 
across? 

Monsieur  Laubriet.  He  was  with  a  Senator, 
and  he  let  go  his  arm  and  came  up  to  me. 

"My  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to 
you.  Wait  one  moment,  and  I  shall  be  at  liberty." 

And  I  had  in  truth  hardly  reached  the  end  of 
the  gallery  before  he  rejoined  me.  I  had  often 
known  him  exceedingly  pleasant,  but  never  quite 
so  amiable  as  now.  He  wanted  me  to  do  some- 
thing for  him. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  poor  M is 

dead?"  M was  a  Councillor-General  for  the 

Beaupr£au  district.  "  It  is  a  great  loss,"  he  added. 

"And  Landehue?"  I  asked;  "and  la  Geniviere? 


224  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

It  is  months  since  I  have  spoken  to  any  one  from 
Vendee.  Have  you  been  back  in  Paris  any  length 
of  time?  Has  anything  fresh  taken  place  at 
home?  How  is ?" 

But  he  paid  no  attention  to  what  I  was  saying 
and,  preoccupied  with  thoughts  of  a  very  different 
character  to  mine,  he  went  on: 

"Yes,  believe  me,  no  one  regrets  his  death  more 
than  I  do.  But  the  earth  belongs  to  the  living,  is 
it  not  so?" 

"Most  assuredly." 

"That  is  just  what  my  excellent  friend  Z , 

the  Member  for  the  Loire-InfeYieure,  has  just  been 
reminding  me.  And  he  has  actually  been  insisting 
that  I  ought  to  come  forward  as  a  candidate  to 

replace  poor  M ;  I  am  the  only  possible 

person  for  the  post  after  Z himself,  and  he 

is  so  very  persistent.  What  do  you  think  about 
it?" 

Surprised  that  an  insignificant  person  like  my- 
self should  be  consulted,  as  well  as  surprised  to  see 
that  Monsieur  Laubriet  had  an  ambition  of  which 
I  should  never  have  suspected  him,  I,  of  course, 
answered  that  I  thought  it  an  excellent  idea. 

He  was  pleased  with  my  reply. 

"Well,  then,"  he  said,  "we  must  get  the  start. 
Other  candidates  might  come  forward.  I  shall 
count  upon  you.  A  word  or  two  in  the  Don  Juan 
will  pave  the  way.  Just  a  light,  clever,  suggestive 
little  notice,  with  a  moderate  amount  of  puff  in  it, 
conciliatory,  but  avoiding  all  downright  promises. 
And  who  can  do  this  better  than  you,  with  your 
talent,  etc.  But  remember,  above  all,  not  to  let 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  225 

it  appear  that  I  have  anything  to  do  with  it;  it 
must  come  entirely  from  you.  Will  you  under- 
take this?" 

You  may  guess,  my  dear  master,  that  I  readily 
promised  my  help  in  the  matter. 

It  was  not,  however,  without  some  trepidation 
as  to  what  might  be  the  result  of  this  request  I 
was  going  to  make.  The  Don  Juan  does  not 
trouble  itself  much  about  local  affairs,  and  I  do 
not  stand  in  any  high  credit  with  it.  I  could  not 
contemplate  going  and  knocking  at  Monsieur 
Thie'nard's  door  and  saying:  "The  Councillor- 
General  of  Beaupre*au  is  dead.  The  post  is  vacant, 
etc."  But  my  article  of  the  morning  saved  the 
situation.  L&mce  Gay  had  appeared  to  be  well- 
disposed  toward  me,  and  as  he  puts  a  little  about 
everything  in  his  Echoes,  I  went  to  find  him.  At 
first  he  refused.  But  when  he  saw  that  I  persisted : 

"I  say,  Noellet,"  he  said,  "are  you  really  so 
anxious  about  it?" 

"More  than  I  can  tell  you." 

"On  his  behalf  or  your  own?" 

"On  my  own." 

"A  love  affair?" 

"Possibly." 

He  gave  a  queer  little  smile. 

"You  are  growing  quite  a  Parisian,  Noellet;  I 
congratulate  you.  But  understand,  fifteen  lines, 
not  a  word  more." 

So  to-morrow  Monsieur  Laubriet  will  have  the 
pleasure  of  reading  the  following  paragraph  in  the 
Don  Juan:  "A  few  days  ago  we  announced  the 
death  of  Monsieur  M at  his  country  house  at 


226  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

.    The  electors  of  Beaupre*au  are  already,  it 

seems,  beginning  to  look  out  for  a  successor  to  this 
honourable  gentleman,  who  had  been  their  Coun- 
cillor-General for  thirty  years.  We  do  not,  as  a 
rule,  interfere  with  these  local  elections.  But  in 
the  present  case  one  man  appears  so  exactly  fitted 
for  the  post  that  we  do  not  hesitate  to  name  him — 
Monsieur  Hubert  Laubriet,  the  noted  sportsman, 
well  known  among  the  artistic  circles  of  Paris, 
member  of  the  Agricultural  Society  of  France,  and 
one  of  the  largest  landowners  of  the  province. 
A  cultivated,  rich,  and  liberal-minded  gentleman, 
he  would  be  the  very  man  required.  It  only 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  his  modesty  can  be 
overcome,  and  if  he  can  be  persuaded  to  enter  the 
arena  of  politics.  Madame  Laubriet,  nee  De 
Ponthual,  is  adored  throughout  the  province." 

November  12th. 

I  reached  the  office  at  three  o'clock;  I  was 
sent  for  to  the  parlour.  There  I  found  Monsieur 
Laubriet,  who  rushed  forward  delightedly,  and 
seized  both  my  hands. 

"It  was  exactly  what  was  wanted,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "The  notice  was  capitally  written. 
Nothing  omitted.  The  few  words  about  Madame 
Laubriet  were  quite  appropriate.  She  was  very- 
gratified  by  them.  You  will  find  this  out  for  your- 
self if  you  will  come  and  dine  with  us  this  evening 
at  seven  o'clock — just  ourselves." 

As  seven  o'clock  struck  I  rang  at  the  door  in 
the  Rue  La  Boetie.  My  reception  by  Madame 
Laubriet  was  more  genuinely  cordial  than  it  had 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  227 

been  before  the  long  vacation.  Her  proud  bearing 
she  will  always  retain,  and  it  suits  her,  but  it  was 
moderated  for  me  by  a  smile  and  a  gracious  word. 

"The  paragraph  is  by  the  hand  of  a  Vend£ean, 
who  does  not  forget  his  country,  and  by  a  writer 
who  will  some  day  make  a  name." 

To  which  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  added: 

"And  who  is  already  spoken  of." 

"Oh,  Mademoiselle!" 

She  looked  at  her  sister  as  she  spoke  with  that 
air,  which  belongs  to  her  class,  of  only  giving  a 
third  part  of  her  thoughts 'to  what  she  was  saying, 
and  that  has  so  often  baffled  me  and  made  me  ill 
at  ease. 

"My  father,  who  understands  about  such  mat- 
ters, has  often  said  so  to  us,  Pierre.  And  even 
we,  Marthe  and  I,  who  are  no  judges,  were  very 
much  amused  this  morning  with  your  'A  First 
Afternoon  in  the  Bois.' " 

"Have  you  read  it,  then,  Mademoiselle?" 

"Why,  yes,  Pierre,  and  it  is  not  at  all  bad,  only 
there  were  one  or  two  details  that  might  have  been 
left  out.  For  instance,  you  mention,  as  if  it  was 
a  novelty  this  season " 

"Why  do  you  tell  him  that,  Madeleine?"  inter- 
rupted Mademoiselle  Marthe.  "How  could  Pierre 
know " 

"Oh,  please  tell  me,  Mademoiselle,"  I  replied, 
already  feeling  unhappy  and  frightened,  "you  will 
really  be  doing  me  a  service." 

"Oh,  well,  it's  only  a  trifle.  You  describe  two 
otter-skin  toques,  trimmed  with  'a  pointed 
feather,'  which  we  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing. 


228  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

It  was  charming  on  your  part — impossible  to  be 
kinder.  But,  my  dear  Pierre,  you  speak  of  two 
horrors  of  last  winter,  which  you  would  have  done 
better  not-  to  mention." 

I  had  turned  as  red  as  a  poppy,  and  she,  noticing 
this,  immediately  added : 

"Don't  let  it  worry  you.  You  are  not  obliged 
to  know  what  has  gone  out  of  fashion.  There  is 
nothing  to  show  that  it  is  we  whom  you  describe, 
and,  moreover,  the  greater  number  of  our  friends 
who,  like  ourselves,  had  only  arrived  in  Paris  the 
night  before,  had  not  any  newer  dresses  on  than 
ourselves." 

Monsieur  Laubriet  now  entered  the  room.  We 
sat  down  to  table.  Mademoiselle  Madeleine, 
anxious  to  atone  for  having  involuntarily  wounded 
me,  forgetful  that  one  ought  not  to  joke  with 
people  of  my  kind  who  have  already  met  with  so 
many  bruises  in  life,  drew  me  into  conversation  on 
various  subjects  which  came  more  within  my  scope 
than  the  fashions — literature,  the  theatre,  the 
latest  news  of  Paris.  I  think  I  got  on  well.  The 
superior  information  which  the  dweller  in  Paris 
possesses  over  ladies  who  have  been  spending  six 
months  in  the  country  gave  me  the  lead.  There 
was  a  basket  of  late  roses  on  the  table,  still  beau- 
tiful, although  a  little  fallen,  which  they  had 
brought  from  Vended,  and  had  perhaps  kept  to 
give  me  pleasure.  Their  sweet,  somewhat  faded, 
scent  reached  me,  and  brought  at  moments  a 
trouble  with  it,  disposed  as  I  was  just  then  to  be 
easily  upset  in  my  feelings.  As  Monsieur  Laubriet, 
or  Mademoiselle  Marthe,  took  up  the  conversation, 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  229 

my  eyes  involuntarily  wandered  to  these  flowers 
that  had  been  plucked  from  stems  growing  in  the 
homeland;  like  me,  they  had  been  cut  and  brought 
here,  probably  by  the  same  hand,  and  were  now 
scarcely  heeded.  Just  above  them,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table,  rose  Mademoiselle  Madeleine's 
haughty  face,  illuminated  by  the  strong  light  of 
the  lamp.  She  was  thrilling  with  high  spirits  and 
wit.  Not  a  shade  of  compassion  or  of  musing 
thought  checked  the  free  flow  of  her  light-hearted 
gayety.  I  seemed  to  see  her  again  as  a  little  child, 
even  then  the  proud  darling  of  fortune,  running 
about  the  fields  among  the  buttercups,  which  we 
named  Alleluias.  My  thoughts  were  beginning  to 
wander  into  other  scenes,  when  a  question  sud- 
denly put  to  me  by  Monsieur  Laubriet  brought  me 
back  to  the  present.  My  imagination  had  bolted, 
and  with  difficulty  I  got  it  again  under  control. 
The  conversation  was  full  of  these  sudden  starts. 

But  not  a  word  of  La  Geniviere.  It  was  too 
delicate  a  subject  to  touch  upon.  By  a  refinement 
of  breeding,  all  the  members  of  this  family,  who 
were,  for  the  first  time,  entertaining  me  at  their 
own  table,  taxed  their  ingenuity  to  find  other 
things  to  talk  about.  I  was  conscious  of  the  effort 
and  discomfited  accordingly. 

After  dinner  Madame  Laubriet,  having  taken 
her  place  at  the  corner  of  the  hearth,  made  me  sit 
down  beside  her,  and  then  we  naturally  fell  to 
speaking  of  home.  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  was 
standing  near,  her  face  turned  away  from  us  for 
she  was  busy  netting  a  large  hammock,  the  end  of 
which  she  had  hooked  on  to  the  window-fastening. 


230  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

Monsieur  Laubriet  and  Marthe  were  at  the  piano 
turning  over  a  new  score. 

"I  went  twice  to  see  your  father  and  mother," 
said  Madame  Laubriet,  "and  my  husband  was 
there  oftener.  You  know,  Pierre,  we  have  always 
held  those  estimable  people  in  great  respect." 

"There  is  the  same  feeling  on  their  side,  Ma- 
dame." 

I  did  not  dare  ask  after  my  father  at  first. 

"Is  Antoinette  well?" 

"She  is  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  town." 

"And  Marie?" 

"I  hear  that  it  will  not  be  long  before  she  is 
married.  She  will  be  a  genuine  farmer's  wife.  Your 
parents  set  their  hopes  on  her,  and  I  think  they  are 
right.  They  have  a  future  to  look  forward  to  now." 

"And  how  are  they?" 

"Very  much  aged,  especially  your  father." 

"Did  you  speak  to  him  about  me?" 

"Of  course  I  did." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

Madame  Laubriet,  who,  up  to  that  moment,  had 
kept  them  discreetly  fixed  on  the  Japanese  screen 
she  was  holding  in  her  hand,  now  turned  toward 
me  her  large  velvety  brown  eyes,  in  which  could 
be  seen  the  reflection  of  many  wise  thoughts,  as 
one  by  one  they  passed  across  her  mind. 

1 '  He  has  not  got  over  his  anger, ' '  she  said .  ' '  And 
can  you  be  surprised,  my  dear  boy?  I  can  well 
imagine  his  feeling.  It  was  impossible  for  your 
parents  to  understand  a  determination  like  yours. 
And  especially  now  that  Jacques  has  gone,  there 
is  the  farm  which  must  fall  more  and  more  into 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  231 

the  hands  of  servants.  I  know  nothing  sadder 
than  this  forsaking  of  the  land." 

"But,  Madame,"  I  answered  somewhat  hastily, 
"my  sisters  will  marry,  as  you  yourself  have  just 
said,  and  will  carry  on  the  family  tradition:  for 
myself  I  have  broken  it." 

"And  you  have  never  regretted  it?" 

"No,  Madame." 

"I  trust  you  never  may  do  so.  There  was  such 
an  honourable,  wide,  beautiful  life  awaiting  you 
there." 

"You  think,  then,  Madame,  that  it  is  possible 
for  a  man  who  has  studied  as  I  have  to  go  back  to 
the  plough?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  turned  her  eyes  back  to 
the  screen,  and  answered  indifferently: 

"I  do  not  say  that,  Pierre." 

She  did  not  say  it,  but  she  thought  it.  Made- 
moiselle Madeleine  was  drawing  her  wooden  needle 
threaded  with  its  blue  string  more  slowly  through 
her  netting,  and  I  knew  she  was  listening  to  what 
I  was  saying.  Why,  I  cannot  tell,  but  a  sudden 
courage  seized  me. 

"No,  Madame,"  I  replied  in  a  low,  but  deter- 
mined voice,  "it  is  impossible.  Each  man  has  his 
own  vocation  in  the  world.  My  separation  from 
the  land  is  irrevocable.  I  have  an  ambition  differ- 
ent to  that  of  my  parents,  and  henceforth  I  shall 
devote  myself  to  it  entirely." 

"And  what  is  your  ambition?" 

"To  make  a  name  for  myself,  Madame.  Many 
a  time  since  I  was  on  this  paper  I  have  elbowed 
men  who,  like  me,  were  born  on  a  farm,  not  even  in 


232  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

such  a  good  position  as  myself — for  my  father  is 
after  all  his  own  master — who  are  now  painters, 
sculptors,  musicians,  authors,  forming  an  elite 
society  side  by  side  with  that  of  birth  and  money, 
at  home  everywhere,  and  everywhere  well  received. 
I  have  met  several  of  them  in  this  house,  Madame. 
Well,  my  ambition  is  that  after  having  been  re- 
ceived here  out  of  pity  in  virtue  of  being  a  child 
from  the  Mauges " 

"Oh,  Pierre!" 

"Suppose  out  of  kindness,  Madame,  that  you 
were  some  day  to  be  proud  of  Pierre  Noellet,  of 
Fief-Sauvin?  How  I  should  thank  you  on  that 
day  for  having  received  me,  and  for  the  encourage- 
ment, of  more  value  to  me  than  you  can  imagine, 
afforded  me  by  the  smallest  mark  of  attention  on 
your  part." 

I  thought  I  could  perceive  that  Mademoiselle 
Madeleine  was  pausing  a  long  time  over  the  knot- 
ting of  her  thread  before  beginning  another  mesh. 
What  was  in  her  mind?  I  could  not  see  her  face. 
All  I  could  detect  from  the  side  view  of  her  oval 
cheek  was  that  she  smiled  a  little. 

Madame  Laubriet,  touched  perhaps,  but  not 
convinced,  smiled  feebly. 

"Do  not  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  blame  every- 
thing concerning  your  ambition.  There  is  a  pride 
which  is  anything  but  displeasing  to  me.  The 
only  thing  that  is  bad  about  yours  is  that  your 
parents  have  suffered  so  much  for  it.  I  should  have 
been  glad  if  I  could  have  brought  about  a  recon- 
ciliation. But  I  see  it  is  too  late  now  to  go  back." 

"Much  too  late,  Madame." 


r'THIS,   MY   SON"  233 

"Well,  I  know  of  no  other  way  to  allay  your 
father's  anger.  Do  you  know  of  any?" 

"Of  none,  Madame.  There  are  many  things 
besides  which  keep  me  away  from  my  father. 
Twice  he  has  driven  me  from  the  house,  and  you 
may  be  sure  that  I  shall  not  make  the  first  step 
toward  returning." 

"Do  not  say  that,  Pierre.  It  is  an  evil  word 
that  I  do  not  like  to  dwell  upon.  Time  changes 
many  things." 

"Not  many  in  Vendee,  Madame." 

She  smiled  somewhat  sadly.  I  rose  and  thanked 
her.  Monsieur  Laubriet  came  up  to  me  in  an  easy 
sort  of  way  as  if  he  had  heard  nothing  of  our  con- 
versation. We  went  together  to  the  billiard-room 
and  played  a  few  games  which  he  very  much 
wished  to  lose. 

And  then  I  returned  home. 

November  13th. 

This  first  interview  which  I  had  dreaded  had 
therefore  turned  out  well.  I  had  been  better  re- 
ceived than  usual,  and  there  had  been  an  additional 
shade  of  interest  in  their  manner  toward  me.  I 
had  been  able  to  tell  Madame  Laubriet,  in  her 
daughter's  hearing,  what  my  aim  in  life  was.  She 
had  given  no  sign  of  surprise  or  incredulity.  My 
ambition  had  not  appeared  to  her  too  laughable. 
She  believed  as  I  did  that  I  should  some  day  make 
a  name.  As  far  as  I  could  see,  Mademoiselle 
Madeleine  had  also,  while  listening,  thrown  up 
her  head  with  the  little  haughty  gesture  she  has 
when  anything  pleases  her.  "Your  article  on 


234  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

'A  First  Afternoon  in  the  Bois'  was  not  bad  at  all," 
she  had  said  to  me.  A  little  want  of  experience 
and  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  society  were  no 
doubt  lacking.  I  know  it  myself.  But  all  that 
will  come  in  time. 

I  feel  my  courage  revived  and  doubled  this 
morning. 

Do  not  despair,  Pierre  Noellet;  the  wind  is 
blowing  your  way.  You  will  be  a  somebody. 
You  will  win  the  victory  in  spite  of  all  the  obsta- 
cles that  block  your  path.  The  lowliness  of  your 
birth  will  now  soon  be  forgotten.  Your  professional 
name  will  be  a  new  name.  Then  those  who  have 
blamed  you  will  applaud.  Then  you  will  be  able 
to  say  to  fortune,  to  beauty:  "I  am  your  equal, 
and  my  name  is  talent."  Then,  perhaps,  Made- 
leine Laubriet  will  feel  that  she  can  love  me.  You 
love  her  too  much,  Pierre  Noellet,  for  her  not  to 
love  you  some  day. 

Oh,  my  dear  old  friend,  what  a  dream!  It  is 
mine  more  than  ever.  Do  not  disturb  it:  let  me 
dream  on. 

December  10th. 

Monsieur  Laubriet  is  chosen  Councillor-General, 
no  other  candidate  having  opposed  him. 

The  news  was  wired  to  me  this  afternoon  at  the 
office.  And  this  evening,  at  nine  o'clock,  I  rang 
at  Rue  La  Boetie.  I  thought  it  was  only  my  duty 
to  go  and  congratulate  Monsieur  Laubriet.  I  was 
pleased  to  have  had  my  share  in  his  success,  and 
the  foolish  conceit  we  have  of  our  own  deeds  whis- 
pered words  to  me  on  my  way  of  flattering  greeting. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  235 

What  a  wise  fortune-teller! 

As  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  was  opened  my 
eyes  fell  on  the  following  scene : 

The  Laubriet  family  was  seated  in  a  half-circle 
round  the  fire,  with  a  look  of  attention  on  their 
faces,  while  in  the  middle,  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
stood  a  stranger,  who  looked  like  an  American 
planter,  very  tall,  with  a  long  black  beard  reaching 
half-way  down  his  chest,  leaning  forward  a  little 
toward  Mademoiselle  Madeleine,  who  was  clap- 
ping her  hands,  as  she  said,  laughing: 

"That's  nice  of  you,  very  nice!" 

He  drew  himself  up  as  I  drew  near,  and  looked 
me  over  from  head  to  foot.  I  was  feeling  dis- 
pleased at  Madeleine  Laubriet's  familiarity  with 
this  unknown  man.  My  face  must  evidently  have 
betrayed  my  feelings,  for  Madame  Laubriet  began 
to  laugh  and  said : 

"You  do  not  recognize  him?" 

"No,  Madame."  ' 

"Look  well  at  him." 

"Is  it  possible,  surely " 

Then  they  all  burst  out  at  once — one  in  answer 
to  my  questioning  looks,  the  other  in  explanatory 
exclamations  about  him. 

"Yes;  it  is  really  he,  our  dear  Jules  de  Ponthual. 
Doesn't  he  look  grand?" 

"Fourteen  months'  tour  round  the  world! 
Landed  from  India  yesterday.  Got  into  Paris  this 
morning,  and  come  round  to  see  us  this  same  even- 
ing. Isn't  it  nice  of  him?  Without  giving  us  any 
warning,  just  as  he  used  to  do!" 

"And  what  things  he  has  seen!" 


236  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

My  old  fellow-collegian  had  let  his  beard  grow 
and  was  very  sunburnt;  but  I  ought  to  have 
known  him;  there  are  not  two  men  in  Paris  with 
such  shoulders  as  his.  He  was  probably  not  more 
pleased  than  I  was  at  this  meeting,  but,  neverthe- 
less, he  held  out  his  hand. 

"If  I  have  covered  some  ground  during  my  late 
travels,"  he  said,  "you,  too,  I  believe,  have  not  been 
stationary." 

I  understood  that  he  had  already  heard  about 
me. 

And  then  he  started  off  with  long  stories  about 
his  journey  round  the  world,  some  of  them  of  a 
cold-blooded  ferocity,  in  which  was  a  mingling  of 
golden  skies,  of  swamps  with  red  flamingoes, 
of  young  Egyptian  fellaheen  holding  out  their 
pitchers  of  water  to  the  thirsty  traveller,  of  alarms, 
of  wild  beasts,  of  hunting-parties:  all  of  which 
produced  their  due  effect.  His  relations  looked  at 
him  with  admiration.  He,  on  his  side,  was  de- 
lighted with  their  astonishment.  For  myself,  I 
hardly  listened  to  him.  I  was  watching  Madeleine 
Laubriet,  who  never  took  her  eyes  off  him,  and  a 
mad  jealousy  began  gnawing  at  my  heart.  She 
did  not  lose  a  word  he  said,  or  a  single  look  or 
action.  She  was  conscious  alone  of  him.  With 
him,  this  proud  young  girl  had  become  eager  and 
attentive.  She  laughed  at  things  that  were  not 
funny.  She  manifested  an  exaggeration  of  feeling 
aroused  by  Ponthual's  tales;  on  hearing  of  the 
least  danger  he  had  run  she  was  all  astonishment, 
fear,  and  emotion.  Her  whole  attitude  was  a 
conscious  or  unconscious  flattery  addressed  to  her 


".THIS,   MY   SON"  237 

cousin.  Something  of  greater  power  than  the 
world  and  its  conventions,  or  than  breeding,  had 
suddenly  transformed  her. 

I  was  so  wretched  that  I  could  not  stand  the 
prolongation  of  the  trial. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  I  took  my  leave,  under 
pretence  of  having  to  get  through  some  urgent 
work. 

They  all  saw  me  depart  without  the  slightest  con- 
cern; indeed,  they  took  as  little  notice  of  my  leav- 
ing as  if  I  had  been  a  child  among  a  group  of  elders 
listening  to  the  tales  of  a  grandfather,  which  I  was 
considered  too  young  to  appreciate.  No  one  asked 
me  to  stay;  no  one  said:  "I  hope  you  will  come 
again."  Madeleine  did  not  so  much  as  turn  her 
head.  Once  more  in  my  room,  seated  in  front  of 
my  books,  which  I  have  not  the  courage  to  open, 
I  can  see  her  again  with  her  eyes  on  Ponthual, 
and  with  that  clinging  look  in  them  which  ex- 
pressed more  than  the  ordinary  pleasure  at  his 
return. 

And  why  had  he  made  such  haste  to  run  and 
see  her?  What  is  happening?  I  tremble  at  the 
thought  of  making  too  true  a  guess.  Ponthual 
has  always  been  an  enemy  of  mine.  We  hardly 
ever  spoke  to  one  another  at  college.  Whenever 
I  could  get  hold  of  the  ball  and  throw  it  at  him, 
I  aimed  with  a  hidden  hatred,  and  tried  my  best 
to  hurt  him.  Something  whispered  me  even  then 
that  we  were  to  be  rivals  in  after  life.  And  here 
he  comes,  throwing  himself  in  the  way  of  my 
dream,  my  old  and  cherished  dream! 

I  hate  him. 


238  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

Alas!  And  I  can  see  all  the  advantages  he  has 
over  me — money,  name,  education.  I  am  his 
superior  in  intellect,  and  yet  this  evening  I  sat  as 
if  struck  dumb.  What  an  advantage  these  long 
travels  have  been  to  him!  Living  in  contact  as 
he  has  with  men  and  things,  the  insufficiency  of  his 
studies  has  been  repaired.  He  is  no  longer  the 
same  man.  I  left  him  heavy,  ignorant,  rough,  and 
I  find  him  now  tall  and  strong,  interesting  as 
everybody  is  who  has  been  about  and  seen  things, 
and  coldly  polite.  What  a  rapid  transforma- 
tion it  has  been  for  him,  while  I  have  been 
painfully  climbing  up  the  hill  of  poverty  and 
obscurity! 

Madeleine  will  fall  in  love  with  him! 

The  thought  is  intolerable  to  me,  but  I  cannot 
shake  it  off.  I  am  certain  that  she  is  going  to  love 
him.  And  even  if  it  is  not  he,  she  will  care  for 
some  one  else  before  I  have  been  able  to  climb  to 
her  level.  Madeleine  Laubriet  is  twenty  years  of 
age;  she  is  rich,  she  is  attractive.  She  has  only  to 
look  around  her  and  choose.  Why  should  she 
stoop  to  pick  me  out  from  among  the  many  who 
are  struggling  and  suffering? 

I  shall  not  have  time  to  realize  my  dream.  Why 
did  I  not  see  this  from  the  first?  To-day  I  see  it 
all  so  clearly.  I  looked  for  fame  and  it  has  not 
come.  It  can  never  come.  For  sixteen  months 
I  have  been  fighting  in  the  crowd  that,  like  myself, 
all  wish  to  make  a  name.  What  have  I  gained  as 
regards  her  for  whose  sake  I  have  undergone  the 
suffering  of  daily  striving?  Am  I  not  as  far  from 
her  as  the  first  day  I  came?  Every  step  I  have 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  239 

taken  in  the  world  has  been  a  humiliation.  Here 
I  am  nobody.  Life  to  me  appears  useless,  void, 
and  almost  guilty.  It  would  require  years,  years 
that  will  not  be  mine! 

My  poor  illusions,  I  look  for  them  and  find  them 
not.  Even  in  my  worst  days,  during  the  poverty 
and  misery  of  my  early  struggle,  they  were  with 
me  and  encouraged  me.  I  heard  the  beating  of 
their  wings  around  me.  I  said  to  them:  Leave 
me;  I  love  you,  but  I  will  not  follow  you;  you 
will  return  later  on,  when  a  little  renown  will 
have  made  me  worthy  of  her:  illusions  bora 
of  her  smile,  my  best-beloved  ones,  leave  me! 
But  I  did  not  say  it  with  much  firmness,  and 
one  of  them  generally  remained  behind  to  con- 
sole me. 

And  where  are  they  now? 

The  wind  is  blowing  a  hurricane  this  evening. 
It  shakes  my  doors  and  windows,  hurling  itself 
against  them  in  great  gusts.  It  has  flung  and 
broken  and  scattered  itself  against  every  corner  of 
the  walls  and  roofs:  now  it  cries  and  sobs.  So 
many  obstacles  bar  its  passage!  How  free  and 
proud  it  was  as  it  passed  unchecked  over  our  hills 
down  there!  A  great  river  of  wind  flowing  with 
a  regular  sound  as  of  waves,  monotonous  and  re- 
sistless! And  La  Geniviere,  perched  high  on  its 
rock,  was  like  a  little  island,  around  which  swept 
the  gigantic  stream. 

Always  the  same  memories,  always  the  same! 
My  happy  childhood — when  I  broke  away  from 
it  I  received  a  wound,  which  continues  to  gape 
afresh. 


240  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

This  evening  I  ask  myself  with  dismay  if  I  have 
not  been  mistaken?  I  cannot  now  go  back  and  the 
future  lies  dark  before  me.  What  will  become  of 
me? 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


FORSAKEN,  ill  spoken  of,  Melie  Rainette  lost  none 
of  her  pride,  but  went  outside  her  door  as  little  as 
possible.  She  had  grown  to  love  her  flowers,  and 
spent  hours  in  her  garden  digging  and  weeding 
and  watching  the  flowering  of  some  autumn  plants 
which  she  had  picked  up  here  and  there.  She  was 
vaguely  conscious  of  some  resemblance  between 
herself  and  these  plants  blown  about  by  the  rough 
winds  and  beaten  with  storms.  She  mourned 
sympathetically  when  they  died,  thinking  of  her 
own  fate.  A  languor  came  over  her.  She  was  not 
ill,  but  she  no  longer  felt  as  strong  as  she  did 
formerly.  Her  face  had  gradually  grown  thinner 
with  her  trouble.  Clad  in  her  black  mantle,  she 
had  now  the  look  of  a  widow,  whose  thoughts  are 
dwelling  on  past  happiness,  and  who  as  far  as 
possible  takes  no  note  of  outward  things. 

Then  the  winter  set  in.  Everything  outside 
was  frozen  except  the  rosemary  bush,  which  was, 
however,  growing  less  vigorous  as  the  years  went 
by.  They  were  sad  days  for  Melie  Rainette,  for 
added  to  her  loneliness  was  the  increasing  distress 
of  her  circumstances.  Work  was  bad.  All  the 
manufacturers  throughout  the  Mauges  were  lower- 
ing their  prices.  Orders  came  in  less  frequently, 
and  even  the  most  skilled  weavers  received  thread 
for  only  three  or  four  days'  work  a  week. 

241 


242  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

Poverty,  loneliness,  and  sorrow  of  heart — these 
were  much  for  a  young  girl  to  bear.  Nevertheless 
Melie  Rainette  did  not  complain.  First  of  all, 
being  less  busy  at  her  weaving,  she  gave  more  time 
to  lesser  orders  for  sewing  or  embroidery,  of  which, 
although  fatiguing  and  badly  paid,  she  was  fonder, 
both  for  the  sake  of  the  work  itself  and  for  the  good 
light  which  it  required.  Her  own  room  was  so 
white  and  well  furnished!  She  was  happier  there 
than  anywhere  else.  It  contained  all  the  wealth 
of  the  house :  lace  on  the  curtains ;  a  firescreen  of 
moss  stuck  with  artificial  flowers;  an  arm-chair 
that  had  belonged  to  her  father;  a  cupboard,  near- 
ly empty  inside,  but  made  of  prettily  veined  wal- 
nut wood,  and  so  polished  with  white  wax  that  it 
was  a  wonder  to  look  upon;  and,  hanging  well  in 
view  on  its  cushion  of  red  velvet  between  the  two 
glass  candlesticks  on  the  mantel-piece,  her  mother's 
wedding  wreath,  which  she  had  rescued  from  an  old 
trunk  to  which  it  had  been  consigned. 

The  time  passed  more  lightly  there — at  least,  it 
seemed  so  to  Melie. 

A  few  good  people  still  came  to  see  her  now  and 
then. 

But  she  had  also  undertaken  a  new  duty  which 
was  a  great  pleasure  to  her.  The  parish  priest  of 
Fief,  seeing  her  so  violently  abused,  had  not  lost 
his  own  respect  for  Melie,  and  to  avenge  her  for  the 
evil  reports  of  which  she  was  a  victim,  he  engaged 
her  as  a  help  to  the  sacristan,  an  old  woman  who 
was  falling  into  the  grave,  and  could  no  longer  at- 
tend to  the  church  and  its  decorations. 

This  handling  of  flowers,  ornaments,  and  altar- 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  243 

cloths  was  a  real  delight  to  Me*lie,not  less  than  the 
distribution  of  incense  to  the  choir  children  and 
the  decoration  of  the  church  on  the  eve  of  festivals. 
She  enjoyed  getting  out  the  banners  and  garlands, 
and  superintending  the  carpenter  who  put  them 
up,  retiring  a  step  or  two  to  call  out  to  him,  "A 
little  higher.  A  little  lower.  Yes,  that's  it." 
Then  there  were  the  old  frames  to  cover  with  fresh 
leaves,  and  rhododendrons  and  palms,  sent  from 
the  Landehue  conservatories,  to  arrange  round  the 
altar.  Melie's  taste  for  this  kind  of  occupation, 
which  harmonized  so  well  with  her  character,  had 
developed  under  the  ill-treatment  to  which  she  had 
been  subjected.  The  quiet  of  these  white-arched 
spaces  calmed  and  refreshed  her.  She  felt  in 
shelter,  far  away  from  and  forgotten  by  the  world. 
A  scroll  well  hung  and  falling  gracefully,  an  in- 
scription in  gold  letters  on  a  light  foundation  of 
muslin,  or  even  an  orris-root  scented  altar-cloth, 
as  she  unfolded  its  smooth,  shjning  folds  fresh  from 
the  iron,  was  sufficient  to  fill  her  with  the  joy  of  a 
child,  who  can  find  food  for  enthusiasm  in  every- 
thing, and  all  whose  emotions  are  winged.  The 
humblest  duties  had  a  charm  for  her.  As  she 
washed  the  tiled  floor  or  polished  the  buffet  in  the 
sacristy,  the  silence  of  the  place  hardly  broken  by 
the  rattling  of  the  window-glass  in  its  lead  frame- 
work, a  deep  and  delicious  sensation  of  peace  stole 
over  her. 

Moreover,  her  great  troubles  and  regrets  had 
subsided  into  that  tranquillity  which  belongs  to  all 
eternal  things.  Her  soul  no  longer  disturbed  by 
them,  she  looked  back  on  the  events  of  the  past 


244  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

with  that  feeling  of  everything  having  happened 
long,  long  ago,  which  is  natural  when  there  has  been 
a  violent  break  in  life.  She  saw  herself  again  as  a 
child,  as  a  girl,  then  as  a  woman,  at  the  time  when 
she  herself  hardly  knew  how  or  when  her  protective 
affection  for  Pierre  Noellet  had  grown  into  some- 
thing more — into  a  love  that  had  remained  hidden, 
that  she  had  never  confessed,  and  that  had  now 
died  completely  out  of  her  heart.  And  as  mothers 
dress  with  their  own  hands  the  graves  of  the 
children  they  have  lost,  so  Melie  surrounded  the 
remembrance  of  her  buried  affection  with  the  faces, 
the  words,  the  smallest  circumstance  amid  which 
the  cherished  dead  had  been  born.  Sad  sweet- 
ness of  loved  graves,  she  knew  you  well! 

There  were  times,  however,  when  her  courage 
failed  her — days  when  she  was  at  her  poorest,  or 
when  some  incident  occurred  and  took  her  by 
surprise,  suddenly  recalling  the  happiness  she  had 
lost  and  the  severed  friendships. 

It  was  on  a  day  like  this,  the  28th  December,  that 
she  saw  the  people  from  two  of  the  farms  at  Vil- 
leneuve  driving  past  early  in  the  direction  of  La 
Geniviere.  She  knew  that  the  farmer  had  sum- 
moned a  whole  armament  of  friends  to  help  him 
cut  down  the  gorse  on  a  piece  of  waste  land  which 
he  wished  to  clear.  Formerly  she  would  have  made 
one  of  the  party.  She  thought  about  it  a  long  time 
after  they  had  passed  out  of  sight  as  she  sat  over 
her  small  fire,  which  she  had  banked  up  with  ashes 
to  prevent  it  burning  too  quickly.  They  had 
driven  noisily  through  the  town,  and  had  seen 
nothing  of  Melie.  Before  nightfall  they  had  cleared 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  245 

the  old  corner  of  waste  land  running  down  to  the 
Evre,  one  of  the  last  left  in  the  province,  that  had 
hitherto  been  a  perfect  forest  of  broom  and  gorse, 
rising  higher  than  a  man's  head,  and  clothed  each 
spring  in  a  garment  of  gold.  The  tall,  prickly 
stems  had  fallen  beneath  the  bill-hooks  and  scythes 
of  men  and  women.  Others  had  tied  them  into 
bundles,  their  hands  bleeding  from  many  pricks 
and  scratches.  They  went  quickly  to  their  work, 
laughing  the  while.  Soon  the  earth,  red  from  its 
covering  of  dead  vegetation,  was  laid  bare,  not  a 
blade  of  grass  was  to  be  seen  upon  it,  only  the 
bristling  points  of  stems,  still  moist  and  green 
where  they  had  been  cut,  but  fast  drying  beneath 
the  wind. 

As  the  sun  went  down  four  fires,  lit  at  the  four 
corners,  began  to  send  up  their  columns  of  smoke, 
and  these,  rising  into  higher  spirals  and  rolling  over 
the  adjacent  hills,  gave  notice  to  the  dwellers 
in  the  near  valley  that  the  dense  thicket,  where 
formerly  the  Chouans  had  found  a  hiding-place,  and 
where  their  grandchildren  had  sheltered  as  they 
guarded  the  sheep,  that  the  waste  land  of  old 
times,  full  of  song,  of  flowers,  and  of  memories, 
had,  like  everything  else,  lived  its  life. 

When  the  evening  meal  was  over,  the  young 
people  finished  up  the  day  with  dancing  a  gavotte, 
according  to  the  custom  when  a  master-farmer  had 
summoned  a  large  party  to  make  war  on  his  land. 
Two  and  two  at  first,  and  then  all  together,  both 
rooms  at  La  Geniviere  being  given  up  to  them, 
the  youths  and  maidens  jumped — the  latter  with 
sedateness,  the  former  with  more  after-supper 


246  "THIS,    MY   SON" 

hilarity.  The  married  women,  with  their  distaffs, 
stood  against  the  walls,  looking  on  as  they  span. 
There  was  no  violin  or  bagpipe  on  account  of  the 
recency  of  Jacques'  death.  Two  girls,  therefore, 
with  clear  young  voices  began  to  lilt  "Ah,  ah,  ah, 
ah!"  and  the  dancers  found  it  all-sufficient  music 
for  their  steps.  Marie  Noellet  was  the  only  one 
who  did  not  dance.  Looking  as  usual  dignified 
and  a  little  sad,  she  sat  in  the  corner  with  a  pitcher 
of  drink  made  of  service-berry  ready  to  hand  to 
the  tired  dancers. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock  when  the  elder  men  and 
women  carried  off  their  young  ones,  the  merry 
sound  of  their  voices  and  footsteps  ringing  through 
the  stillness  of  the  winter  night,  and  heard  afar 
long  after  they  had  left  the  farm. 

Louis  Fauvepre  remained  behind  the  others. 

While  Marie  and  her  sister  were  helping  their 
mother  put  the  chairs  and  tables  in  order,  he  sat, 
lost  in  thought  on  a  bench  near  the  window,  await- 
ing the  farmer,  who  had  gone  part  of  the  way  with 
his  departing  friends.  The  high  spirits  he  had 
been  in  a  few  minutes  before  had  disappeared.  The 
military  bearing,  which  the  boys  of  the  town  tried 
to  imitate,  had  given  place  to  a  curious  awkward- 
ness of  attitude,  and  he  seemed  to  be  ill  at  ease 
under  the  eyes  of  the  two  girls,  who  were  running 
backward  and  forward,  active,  silent,  and  looking 
equally  disturbed.  The  same  cause  of  agitation 
affected  them  all  three  in  different  ways.  When 
Marie  crossed  the  room  and  came  nearer  to  the 
bench,  Louis  Fauvepre  especially  was  so  far  moved 
as  not  to  be  able  to  lift  his  eyes. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  247 

And  a  proud  little  smile  might  have  been  de- 
tected on  the  grave  lips  of  the  girl,  like  the  first 
small  shoot  from  a  seed  that  is  longing  to  burst  into 
flower. 

The  farmer  came  in,  shook  the  rime  off  his  hat, 
and  seeing  Louis  Fauvepre,  seated  himself  on  the 
bench  at  some  little  distance  from  the  young  man. 
Then  he  made  a  sign  to  the  women  to  leave  the 
room. 

The  two  men  were  left  alone,  their  figures  lighted 
up  by  the  blaze  from  the  bundle  of  heather  which 
Marie  had  lighted.  The  young  man  sat  silent,  not 
knowing  how  to  begin  what  he  had  to  say,  and  it 
was  the  farmer  who  spoke  first. 

"You  look  all  in  a  flutter,  my  boy,"  he  said. 
"What  is  it?" 

"You  know  without  my  telling  you,  Maitre 
Noellet." 

"I  may  have  my  suspicions,  but  I  must  hear 
about  it  all  the  same,"  replied  the  farmer,  and 
with  a  certain  tense  look  of  emotion  on  his  face 
he  lifted  his  head,  and,  gazing  absently  toward  the 
far  end  of  the  room,  he  prepared  himself  to  listen. 

"Well,  Maitre  Noellet,  this  is  it:  I  do  not  think 
you  have  ever  heard  any  one  speak  ill  of  me?" 

"No,  my  boy." 

"You  have  always  been  friendly  with  my  father." 

"And  with  his  father  before  him — an  old  man 
whom  I  greatly  respected." 

"I  am  earning  my  living  now,  Maitre  Noellet, 
and  have  even  a  little  over." 

"That's  good,  Louis  Fauvepre;  I  like  to  hear 
that." 


248  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"I  am  old  enough  to  think  of  marrying  and 
setting  up  a  home  of  my  own." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  against  that." 

"And  it  is  your  daughter,  Marie,  that  I  want 
for  my  wife." 

Julien  Noellet  let  his  heavy  hand  fall  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder,  and  they  looked  each 
other  in  the  face. 

"My  poor  boy,"  he  said,  "I  have  no  need  of  a 
wheelwright  here.  I  had  two  sons,  as  you  know; 
one  is  dead,  the  other  as  good  as  dead.  Since  I 
am  now  without  sons,  he  who  is  to  be  my  son-in- 
law  must  take  their  place  at  the  plough,  and  mine 
when  I  am  no  longer  here." 

Then,  in  a  lower  voice,  he  added: 

"You  will  find  a  wife  elsewhere,  my  Louis; 
there  are  no  lack  of  marriageable  girls  in  the  town." 

"But  it  is  your  girl  I  want,  Maitre  Noellet," 
said  Fauvepre  eagerly. 

"You  cannot  have  her,"  replied  the  farmer. 

"Yes,  but  I  mean  to  have  her,  even  though  I 
leave  my  father  and  give  up  my  trade.  I  have 
done  a  little  of  everything  in  the  course  of  my  life, 
Maitre  Noellet — soldier,  blacksmith — but  I  know 
how  to  use  the  goad  and  handle  the  plough  as  well. 
You  know  yourself  that  this  summer  when  work 
was  slack  at  home  I  hired  myself  out  to  the  farmer 
at  Grande-Ecorciere.  Don't  think  I  am  afraid 
of  the  land.  Give  me  Marie.  I  will  come  and 
live  here  with  you.  I  will  stay  to  take  your  place 
at  La  Geniviere  when  you  are  gone.  Maitre 
Noellet,  if  you  want  a  son  to  drive  your  ploughs, 
here  I  am." 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  249 

He  had  risen,  and  stood  up  tall  and  bold;  his 
eyes  flashed,  the  knotted  muscles  of  his  arm  could 
be  seen  through  his  vest  as  he  crossed  them  over 
his  chest.  And  the  fanner,  who  had  half  risen 
himself,  looked  fixedly  at  him  for  a  while,  sur- 
prised and  proud.  His  blood  did  not  rise  so 
quickly  as  that  of  the  younger  man,  but  it  was 
stirred.  A  light  came  into  his  eyes,  the  features 
relaxed;  for  a  moment  he  forgot  his  trouble  as 
he  saw  that  a  son  had  come  to  him,  that  before 
him  stood  a  true  peasant,  a  Vendean  who  loved 
the  dark  earth,  a  future  master  for  La  Geniviere, 
and  of  the  same  race  as  himself  and  his  forebears. 
He  enfolded  him  in  his  arms  in  a  strong  embrace, 
and  as  his  gray  hairs  touched  the  vigorous  head 
of  the  young  man: 

"I  am  willing,  then,"  he  said.  "You  can  come 
and  speak  to  her  next  Sunday,  Louis  Fauvepre.' 

He  had  spoken  the  words  of  betrothal.  The 
soul  of  his  ancestors  must  have  been  present  as  he 
uttered  them.  A  thrill  passed  through  the  whole 
white  house  in  greeting  of  the  heir.  The  door 
closed  softly.  Was  it  happiness  returning?  The 
flame  on  the  hearth  leaped  up.  On  the  farther 
side  of  the  wall  there  was  the  rustling  of  a  dress, 
the  sound  of  a  gliding  footstep  receding  in 
the  distance.  At  the  end  of  the  courtyard  a 
dreaming  redbreast  sent  three  notes  out  into  the 
night. 


At  that  same  hour  Pierre  Noellet,  who  had 
received  a  short  invitation  from  Monsieur  Laubriet 


250  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

the  day  before,  was  entering  the  reception-rooms 
of  the  latter's  house  in  Rue  La  Boe'tie. 

"Come,  my  dear  Pierre,  all  our  friends  will  be 
there  to-morrow  evening;  your  place  is  among 
them." 

A  large  company  was  assembled,  and  Pierre, 
after  his  salutation  to  the  mistress  of  the  house,  had 
retired  to  his  usual  post  of  vantage  near  the  window. 

In  spite  of  the  friendly  brevity  of  Monsieur 
Laubriet's  note,  he  had  had  a  presentiment  that  a 
cruel  trial  awaited  him.  He  had  come,  neverthe- 
less, with  a  sort  of  desperate  feeling  of  bravado — 
the  feeling  made  up  of  pride  and  courage,  which 
makes  us  face  a  trouble  or  a  danger  which  no  flight 
can  avoid,  and  to  say  to  it:  "You  are  looking  for 
me ;  well,  here  I  am.  Hit  out  straight  at  me,  and  let 
me  look  you  full  in  the  face."  He  had  inherited 
the  righting  blood  from  his  old  grandfather. 
Pierre  had  so  dreaded  hearing  the  news  which  he 
had  now  run  to  meet  that  he  had  not  been  near 
Monsieur  Laubriet  for  a  fortnight.  Very  pale  in 
face,  wholly  indifferent  to  the  young  men  who 
passed  by  him  with  their  opera-hats  in  their  hand, 
and  who  looked  astonished,  and  smiled  at  the  poor 
boy's  tragic  countenance,  he  stood  and  watched 
Mademoiselle  Laubriet.  All  eyes  were  turned 
upon  her;  she  was  the  centre  of  attraction,  and 
looking  altogether  exquisite  in  a  dress  of  mign- 
onette colour,  embroidered  with  gray  and  white. 
Independently  of  this,  her  whole  bearing  and  the 
temporary  sovereignty  of  happiness  which  crowned 
her  brows  were  sufficient  evidence  that  the  enter- 
tainment was  in  her  honour.  Her  cousin  Ponthual 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  251 

followed  her  as  she  passed  from  group  to  group, 
as  if  to  share  in  the  felicitations.  He  was  smiling 
good-humouredly  above  his  long  beard.  They 
were  surrounded  by  bowing  black  coats,  by  pretty 
hands  held  out  by  women  gloved  to  the  elbow,  by 
a  murmur  of  insipid  and  conventional  words,  the 
tenour  of  which  could  be  guessed  without  hearing 
them,  and  each  one  of  which  was  like  a  dagger  in 
the  heart  of  Pierre  Noellet. 

He  had  had  time  to  taste  the  whole  bitterness 
of  these  congratulations,  when  Ponthual,  having 
completed  the  circuit  of  the  room,  caught  sight 
of  his  old  schoolfellow  and  came  up  to  him. 
Madeleine  had  paused  to  talk  with  some  of  her 
girl  friends,  who  were  devouring  her  with  ques- 
tions and  smiles  as  they  examined  her  dress. 
Ponthual  had  nothing  left  of  his  insolent  and 
mocking  manner.  He  was  all  friendliness,  and 
held  out  his  broad  hand  to  Pierre  with  the  hearty 
cordiality  of  strong  and  happy  beings  whose  hearts 
are  free  from  rancour. 

"Well,  friend,"  he  said,  "you  know." 

Pierre  just  touched  the  tips  of  PonthuaFs 
fingers  and  replied : 

"No,  I  have  heard  nothing." 

"Then  I  will  make  haste  to  tell  you  the  news. 
We  are  old  acquaintances,  and  I  think  you  will 
sympathize  with  me  in  my  happiness:  I  have 
been  engaged  to  my  cousin  Madeleine  since  the 
day  before  yesterday.  You  are  surprised?" 

He  took  the  pallor  and  the  wild  looks  of  this 
poor  creature,  whose  heart  he  was  unconsciously 
breaking,  for  astonishment. 


252  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"No,"  said  Pierre,  "I  am  not  surprised.  Is  it 
—quite  settled?" 

"Everything  in  the  most  correct  and  official 
manner,  of  which  this  gathering  is  a  witness.  We 
shall  be  married  in  the  middle  of  March.  I  shall 
take  Madeleine  travelling.  We  shall  go — Ah, 
there  you  are.  Good  evening.  We  were  hoping 
you  would  come." 

Ponthual  had  turned  away  to  shake  hands  with 
a  new  arrival. 

The  torture  had  lasted  long  enough.  Pierre  felt 
that  he  should  soon  lose  control  over  himself.  He 
began  to  sob.  He  left  the  window  recess  and 
made  his  way  through  the  throng  to  the  door.  A 
voice  was  calling  to  him.  "Make  haste;  hide 
your  sufferings  from  this  gay  crowd.  Escape  into 
the  heart  of  the  great,  indifferent  Paris,  where 
sorrows  and  joys  alike  are  lonely,  submerged, 
unknown,  and  of  which  the  very  dust  is  familiar 
with  tears.  Make  haste." 

And  yet,  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the 
room,  a  sudden  desire  seized  him  to  have  one  last 
look  at  Madeleine. 

She  was  only  a  little  way  from  him,  distinguish- 
able among  the  other  girls  with  whom  she  was 
chatting  by  the  incomparable  charm  which  belongs 
to  those  who  know  themselves  beloved.  Pierre 
Noellet,  as  he  looked  over  the  heads  of  the  assem- 
bled guests,  across  the  dazzling  glitter  of  light,  the 
resplendent  hangings  and  the  moving  pageant  of 
toilettes,  had  no  difficulty  in  singling  her  out. 

And  her  eyes  caught  sight  of  him,  too.  She 
thought  he  had  only  just  arrived.  She  smiled 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  253 

even  more  engagingly,  and,  moved  by  one  of  the 
kindly  impulses  which  were  uppermost  in  her  that 
evening,  she  made  a  movement  as  if  to  go  forward 
and  greet  him,  to  thank  him  for  having  come,  to 
show  herself  to  him  in  her  new  joy  in  which  every- 
one was  sympathizing. 

But  it  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  The  sight 
of  her  like  that  was  insupportable,  and  he  turned 
and  fled. 

Soon  he  found  himself  alone  in  the  fresh  night 
air,  walking  rapidly  along  the  pavement.  And 
suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  anguish  that  op- 
pressed him,  the  memory  of  some  words  addressed 
to  his  ambitious  youth  returned  to  him  with  a 
bitter  sense  of  irony: 

1 1  What  a  pity  some  one  does  not  give  him  a  lift ! " 
It  was  his  tutor  speaking,  and  Loutrel,  with  his 
squeaky  voice,  made  answer:  "You,  with  such 
powers  as  you  possess,  could  aspire  to  anything." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


MERE  NOELLET,  when  informed  that  same  evening 
of  her  daughter's  betrothal  to  Louis  Fauvepre,  was 
supremely  happy.  The  imagination,  which  was 
natural  to  her,  immediately  carried  her  beyond  the 
present,  and  she  saw  in  the  event  for  which  she 
longed  an  inducement  to  the  farmer  to  soften  the 
severity  of  his  attitude  toward  Pierre,  and  already 
pictured  the  good  news  being  sent  off  to  that 
marvellous  country,  in  which  her  thoughts  were 
wandering  day  and  night,  and  a  letter  arriving  in 
reply.  Yes,  a  letter!  That  was  the  height  of  her 
ambition,  the  dream  she  had  so  long  cherished,  not 
daring  to  dwell  upon  it,  and  which  might  now  be 
allowed  to  blossom  on  account  of  the  little  ray 
of  sunshine  which  was  gilding  La  Geniviere. 

What  could  be  more  natural  and  reasonable? 

How  could  her  daughter  be  married,  and  Pierre 
not  informed  of  it?  And  as  it  never  rains  but  it 
pours,  the  farmer's  wife,  who  had  known  the  truth 
of  the  proverb  as  regarded  her  troubles,  said  to 
herself:  "No  doubt  it  holds  good  with  happiness, 
too,  and  that  one  good  thing  brings  another.  To- 
day it  is  my  daughter's  betrothal,  and  to-morrow 
it  will  be  a  letter  from  my  son." 

She  did  not  dare  speak  openly,  however,  to  her 
husband.  She  had  known  him  so  violent  and 
angry  about  Pierre,  and  his  resentment  against  him, 

254 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  255 

although  somewhat  abated  by  time,  still  existed. 
Above  all,  she  was  aware,  having  many  a  time  had 
proof  of  it,  that  he  held  it  a  solemn  point  of  honour 
not  to  go  back  on  his  word.  Julien  had  never  been 
known  to  belie  himself,  whether  as  regarded  a 
matter  of  business  or  a  trivial  promise  of  which 
any  one  else  would  have  made  light.  And  she 
knew  well,  poor  woman,  that  a  wife's  tears  or 
prayers  would  have  no  power  to  remove  the 
sentence  passed  upon  the  child.  She  had  tried 
too  often  to  have  any  doubt  on  this  point. 

Finally,  it  was  Abbe*  Heurtebise  who  undertook 
the  task. 

"I  will  approach  him  on  the  subject,"  he  said 
to  her;  "you  leave  it  to  me." 

Some  days  went  by,  and  Mere  Noellet  could  hear 
of  nothing  having  been  said,  for  the  abbe*  always 
took  his  time  about  everything.  He  was  not  one 
of  those  who  think  it  does  not  matter  where  or 
when  they  accost  people.  Before  he  entered  upon 
any  subject,  he  liked  to  feel  in  a  certain  frame  of 
mind  himself,  and  to  be  quite  sure  that  the  person 
he  was  addressing  was  in  one  equally  suitable. 
He  had  probably  come  across  the  farmer  several 
times  either  in  the  town  or  the  fields  or  along  the 
road,  but  on  each  occasion  either  the  presence  of 
a  third  person,  or  some  business  on  which  the 
farmer  was  bent,  or  the  state  of  the  weather,  or 
even  something  more  insignificant  still,  had  kept 
the  abbe  from  giving  voice  to  the  words  which 
were  all  ready  to  be  spoken. 

At  last  one  day,  as  he  was  coming  down  through 
the  copse  woods  from  Vigneau,  and  was  about  to 


256  "THIS,   MY  SON'7 

cross  the  river,  he  saw  the  white  walls  of  La 
Geniviere  in  front  of  him,  and  Mere  Nollett's 
message  flashed  across  his  memory.  He  closed  his 
breviary,  keeping  his  thumb  between  the  leaves, 
and  began  pondering,  as  he  followed  the  footpath 
which  ran  between  the  bare  willow  bushes. 

The  farmer  was  just  at  that  moment  mending 
the  footbridge  which  crossed  the  Evre  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  old  piece  of  waste  land.  It  was  simply 
an  oak  trunk  which  had  been  flung  across  the 
water  ages  back,  and  which  now,  split  with  the 
sun,  and  hollowed  by  the  rains,  looked  like  a  small 
boat  of  bark  half  full  of  black  mud.  So  he  had 
turned  carpenter  for  the  time,  and,  astride  on  the 
trunk,  was  nailing  on  to  it  a  new  oak  plank.  His 
long  legs  hung  over  the  gray,  sluggish  water,  which 
was  rippled  by  the  silently  expanding  eddies. 

And  he,  too,  was  thinking  of  Pierre. 

He  had  got  about  half  way  through  his  work 
when,  reaching  out  his  hand  to  take  a  tool  from 
his  box,  he  accidently  lifted  his  eyes — from  the  old 
habit  of  looking  to  see  what  the  weather  was  like — 
and  caught  sight  of  Abbe  Heurtebise  descending 
the  copse  path  toward  the  river. 

It  was  inconvenient  to  the  farmer  to  have  to  get 
off  the  trunk  and  make  room  for  him  to  pass.  He 
did  not,  however,  let  this  be  seen,  but  first  replac- 
ing his  tools  one  by  one  in  his  box,  he  worked  him- 
self back  by  degrees,  still  astride  the  bridge,  and 
helped  himself  with  his  two  hands  till  he  reached 
the  bank,  for  he  was  not  sure  enough  of  his  old 
legs  to  venture  to  stand  upright  upon  it. 

The  abbe"  crossed  the  bridge,  which  cracked 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  257 

under  his  heavy  foot,  not  being  as  yet  quite  securely 
fastened,  and  stopped  beside  the  farmer.  They 
were  of  equal  height;  but  the  farmer,  although 
younger  by  at  least  ten  years,  had  no  longer  the 
soldier-like  air,  nor  the  extraordinarily  animated 
and  energetic  expression  of  eye  of  the  elder  man. 

"And  so  you  go  riding  on  the  trunks  of  trees 
now,"  said  the  abbe". 

"What  would  you  have  me  do?"  replied  Julien. 
"I  have  my  double  weight  of  sorrow,  and  that 
makes  me  a  bit  heavy." 

"Have  you  had  any  news  of  your  son  lately?" 
The  abbe  put  the  question  abruptly. 

The  farmer  seemed  troubled  by  the  question, 
and  looked  down  at  the  box  he  was  holding. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  have  not." 

"How  long  is  it  since  you  had  a  letter?" 

The  farmer  made  no  reply. 

"Has  he  written  to  you  since  May?"  the  abbe* 
continued. 

"No." 

"And  has  any  one  of  your  household  written 
to  him?" 

"No." 

"We  are  now  near  the  end  of  February,  Julien, 
so  it  is  eight  months  ago." 

"You  may  be  sure  that  I  have  counted  them 
myself,"  said  the  farmer. 

"Yes,  I  can  see  you  are  in  trouble  about  it. 
But  that  is  not  enough,  my  friend.  Your  son 
acted  wrongly — very  wrongly.  You  made  use  of 
your  authority,  and  you  were  in  the  right.  But 
perhaps  you  went  a  little  too  far,  Julien?" 


258  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"In  what  way?" 

"In  forbidding  Pierre  to  write  to  you.  At  this 
moment  you  are  in  ignorance  as  to  what  may  have 
become  of  him,  body  and  soul.  Are  you  even 
sure  that  he  is  alive?" 

The  word  struck  home.  The  farmer  gave  a 
start,  and  glanced  up  quickly  at  the  abbe.  A 
sudden  look  of  anxiety  had  come  into  his  eyes. 

"Alive?"  he  repeated— "alive?" 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,  Julien.  It  was  only  my 
way  of  speaking.  If  he  were  dead  you  would  have 
known  it.  Did  not  Monsieur  Hubert  tell  us  that 
he  saw  him  from  time  to  time?  No,  you  may  be 
sure  that  he  is  still  among  the  living.  But  does 
that  cover  all  that  it  is  your  duty  to  know  about 
your  son — your  only  son?  And  will  you  let  your 
daughter  be  married  without  sending  him  word 
about  it?" 

The  farmer  stretched  forth  his  arm  toward  La 
Geniviere,  as  if  to  call  it  to  witness. 

"I  sometimes  failed  in  my  duty  to  my  father  in 
small  matters,"  he  said.  "I  never  knew  him  take 
the  first  step  toward  reconciliation." 

Pierre,  eighty  miles  away,  in  the  Laubriets' 
drawing-room,  and  Julien,  on  the  bank  of  the  Evre, 
had  met  in  spirit  in  their  similar  reply  to  the  same 
interrogation. 

Abb£  Heurtebise  looked  around  him  at  what  had 
been  the  old  waste  land,  now  broken  up  by  a  first 
ploughing,  but  still  cleaving  together  in  great 
clods  of  earth,  whence  protruded  the  broken, 
twisted,  and  already  lifeless  roots  of  furze  and 
broom.  A  shade  of  sadness  passed  across  his  face. 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  259 

"The  past,"  he  said;  "where  is  it  now,  my  poor 
Julien?  I  am  concerned  in  it  as  well  as  you,  and 
yet  I  say  to  you,  'You  must  not  let  things  go  on  as 
they  are  between  yourself  and  your  son;  it  does 
no  good  either  to  you  or  him.' " 

He  did  not  press  the  matter  further,  for  he 
knew  his  man  and  his  country  too  well  to  imagine 
that  he  could  carry  the  formidable  fortress  of 
Vende"ean  resentment  in  a  single  assault. 

He  nodded  quickly  to  Noellet,  and  went  on  up 
the  hill  toward  Villeneuve  along  the  edge  of  the 
ploughed  field,  where  clung  bits  of  the  heath  that 
had  been  cleared  away. 

The  peasant  turned  round,  and  got  astride  the 
bridge  again  to  recommence  his  work.  But  the 
echoes  no  longer  rang  to  the  regular  strokes  of  his 
hammer,  for  after  each  nail  had  been  knocked  in 
there  was  a  pause;  Julien  Noellet  was  thinking 
over  what  the  abbe"  had  just  said  to  him.  Now 
and  then  an  impatient  movement  of  his  legs, 
expressive,  no  doubt,  of  some  sudden  mental 
exclamation,  sent  the  frightened  fishes  to  the 
bottom  of  the  Evre,  that  still  ran  its  cold,  slow 
course  under  the  fine  scum  of  foam. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


HE  was  thoughtful  and  anxious,  but  he  had  not 
yet  made  up  his  mind.  The  resolutions  of  country 
people  take  as  long  to  grow  and  ripen  as  their 
harvests.  Julien  held  long  talks  with  himself; 
he  went  over  the  past  as  he  worked  in  the  fields, 
his  trouble  at  one  moment  inclining  him  to  say 
yes,  and  his  self-love  at  another  to  say  no.  Some 
weeks  went  by  in  this  unhappy  and  conflicting 
state  of  mind.  It  might  perhaps  have  gone  on 
longer  still  if  life  itself  had  not  suddenly  put  the 
question  to  him  afresh,  and  in  a  way  which  al- 
lowed of  no  hesitation  as  to  its  answer. 

The  time  fixed  for  Marie's  wedding  was  now 
drawing  near.  It  happened  on  one  of  the  last 
Sundays,  after  evensong,  that  she  was  waiting,  as 
had  been  her  habit  since  her  betrothal,  for  Louis 
Fauvepre  to  come  and  have  a  talk  with  her. 

Joy  and  sorrow,  those  who  are  dying,  and  those 
who  are  going  to  be  married,  the  same  old  walls 
look  on  at  all  that  passes.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room  at  La  Geniviere  the  farmer  was  seated  on  a 
bench  in  front  of  the  table,  resting  himself,  his 
feet  still  white  from  the  dust  of  the  road.  He  had 
just  come  in  from  the  town.  His  wife  was  folding 
up  her  cap  on  the  bed,  which,  alas,  still  stood 
empty.  Marie  was  standing  up  and  listening. 
She  heard  a  firm  step  crossing  the  courtyard,  and 

260 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  261 

a  little  quiver  passed  over  her  which  seemed 
to  transfigure  her  face.  She  looked  delightfully 
pretty  in  her  pleasure  and  shyness,  and  when  he 
entered  in  his  fine  clothes,  proud  and  confident  of 
her  love,  she  went  up  to  him  and  put  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  half  smiling,  half  serious,  with  a  look 
in  the  direction  of  the  old  people  as  she  let  him 
embrace  her.  Julien  made  his  future  son-in-law 
sit  down  opposite  to  him. 

His  sad  stern  face  always  relaxed  a  little  when 
he  saw  Louis  Fauvepre,  whom  love  had  won  for  the 
land.  A  bright  ray  of  hope  warmed  his  heart. 
He  rejoiced  in  the  thought  of  a  near  future  when 
the  farm-lands,  better  worked  by  the  younger 
hands,  would  bring  the  masters  in  money  and 
when  he  himself  would  be  relieved  of  the  heavier 
tasks,  and  have  less  worry  and  fatigue.  For, 
although  not  an  old  man,  he  felt  worn  out.  He 
had  reached  the  period  of  life  when  ambition  no 
longer  makes  for  more  distant  stages,  but  returns 
to  the  hearth  as  to  the  final  halting-place.  Had 
not  the  women  seen  him  for  the  first  time  sowing 
convolvulus  and  other  small  seeds  under  the  vine- 
trellis,  taking  a  fancy  to  cover  the  front  of  the 
house  with  flowers? 

When  the  young  man,  therefore,  had  taken  his 
seat  on  the  farther  side  of  the  table,  Julien  Noellet 
called  out  in  a  cheerful  voice : 

"Go  and  fetch  a  bottle  of  muscadet,  Marie;  we 
will  drink  to  your  coming  marriage." 

And  then  he  added  to  Louis  Fauvepre: 

"The  weather  is  heavy  to-day;  we  shall  have 
a  storm,  I  think,  before  nightfall." 


262  ''THIS,   MY   SON" 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  the  young  man;  "it  will  be 
good  for  the  vetches,  which  are  perishing  for  want 
of  rain." 

"You  are  right,  Louis  Fauvepre;  a  little  wet 
will  do  them  good,  and  the  wheat  too." 

"You've  got  some  fine  wheat,  Maitre  Noellet; 
you  will  see,  in  return  for  taking  me  on  at  La 
Geniviere,  you  will  have  your  barns  full." 

"It  will  be  always  so  now,  my  friend;  you  have 
brought  me  back  my  luck." 

Marie  now  placed  a  bottle  and  two  glasses  on 
the  table.  As  she  looked  through  the  open  door 
toward  the  stables,  Fauvepre  asked  what  she  saw 
out  there. 

"Two  magpies  chattering,"  she  answered.  "We 
shall  have  company." 

She  was  simple-minded,  this  tall,  good-looking 
girl;  she  repeated  what  she  had  always  heard, 
and  what  she  half  believed:  "When  two  magpies 
chatter,  it  is  a  sign  that  company  is  coming." 

"Pooh!"  said  Fauvepre,  "who  should  be  com- 
ing?" 

"No  one,"  put  in  Julien.  "Formerly,  as  soon 
as  evensong  was  over  on  Sunday,  we  had  a  suc- 
cession of  farmers'  wives  and  their  children,  or  of 
farmers  who  had  business  with  me;  but  when  a 
house  is  in  mourning,  you  see,  the  people  keep  away. 
The  magpies  are  mistaken." 

He  had  hardly  finished  speaking  when  the  post- 
man appeared,  who  came  in,  his  stick  under  his 
arm,  and  shaking  the  dust  off  his  shoes. 

"You  saw  the  glasses  on  the  table  then?"  said 
the  farmer. 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  263 

"No;  I  have  a  letter  for  you." 

The  eyes  of  all  present  turned  to  Julien,  who 
rose,  seized  with  a  great  alarm. 

" Where  does  it  come  from?"  he  asked,  with  an 
effort. 

The  postman  felt  in  his  leathern  bag,  and  an- 
swered : 

"From  Fontainebleau." 

"I  do  not  know  that  name,"  said  Julien;  "is  it 
far  from  Paris?" 

"About  as  far  as  from  here  to  Nantes,"  replied 
the  postman. 

And  he  handed  the  letter  to  the  farmer. 

The  latter  took  it  with  a  trembling  hand,  and 
studied  the  writing  upon  it  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly,  "it  is  not  from  him." 

And  see  how  contradictory  human  nature  is; 
he  had  refused  to  receive  letters  from  his  son,  and 
yet  now,  when  he  saw  that  this  one  was  not  from 
him,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Take  it  and  read  it  for  me,  Louis  Fauvepre; 
my  sight  is  too  dim  to-day." 

The  postman  went  off,  and  the  young  man, 
opening  the  letter,  read  aloud  as  follows: 

"  FONTAINEBLEAU, 

"April  16ft,  188— 
"MONSIEUR  NOELLET, 

"I  am  writing  to  you,  moved  to  do  so  by 

the  sincere  friendship  which  I  have  felt  for  your 

son  since  I  first  met  him  in  Paris,  Quai  du  Louvre. 

"Pierre  is  no  longer  the  man  he  was.    Life, 

which  seemed  to  smile  upon  him,  has  suddenly 


264  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

been  clouded.  Since  the  cruel  disappointment  of 
December  28,  he  has  lost  all  his  strength  and 
energy.  He  is  doing  nothing;  he  is  ill;  he  has, 
I  hear,  forfeited  his  position  on  the  Don  Juan. 
Trouble,  illness,  absinthe,  which  is  so  fatal,  would 
soon  bring  him  into  the  most  deplorable  condition 
if  some  friend  did  not  warn  you  of  the  danger. 
I  have  taken  this  task  upon  myself.  It  is  for  you 
now  to  see  what  can  be  done.  Do  your  duty;  I 
consider  that  I  have  done  mine. 

"Your  obedient  servant, 

"CHABERSOT." 

For  some  time  there  was  a  dead  silence  after 
Louis  Fauvepre  had  finished  reading.  The  letter 
was  somewhat  of  a  mystery  to  the  people  of  La 
Geniviere,  owing  to  the  less  familiar  language  of 
the  old  humanist,  and  to  their  ignorance  concern- 
ing events  to  which  he  referred. 

It  was  the  mother  who  first  broke  silence. 

" Pierre  is  ill  like  the  other  one!"  she  cried, 
bursting  into  tears.  "You  see,  he  has  not  even 
the  strength  to  write!" 

"Why  should  you  think  that?"  said  the  farmer. 
"I  forbade  him  to  write,  and  that  is  a  sufficient 
reason,  I  think!" 

"Poor  child!"  she  continued,  "and  that  letter  is 
nothing  to  you?  You  do  not  realize  that  he  is 
unhappy,  that  he  is " 

"He  is  punished,"  said  Noellet.  "I  knew  he 
would  be,  but  in  what  way  is  not  explained." 

He  spoke  quietly,  and  his  look  and  the  sound  of 
his  voice  showed  that  the  old  anger  had  given  way. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  265 

But  Mere  Noellet  was  too  agitated  herself  to  notice 
this. 

Seeing  Marie  also  in  tears,  the  farmer  told  the 
women  to  go. 

"You  will  not  mend  anything  with  your  crying. 
I  must  talk  over  this  with  Louis  Fauvepre." 

They  went  into  the  next  room,  and  when  the 
men  were  alone:  "What  happened  on  December 
28?"  asked  the  farmer. 

"It  was  the  day  you  consented  to  my  marriage 
with  Marie." 

"Yes,  I  remember,  after  the  clearing  up  of  the 
waste.  But  it  is  not  that  to  which  the  letter  refers. 
What  does  it  say?" 

"The  cruel  disappointment." 

"Do  you  know  what  it  means?" 

"Indeed  I  do  not." 

"  He  is  ill  and  in  trouble ;  there  is  no  doubt  about 
that,"  said  the  father. 

"He  has  taken  to  drink,"  added  Fauvepre; 
"he  is  intoxicating  himself  with  absinthe — and 
that's  bad." 

"Really?'/ 

"I  have  known  men  in  the  regiment  who  died 
from  drinking  it." 

"Who  died  from  it!"  repeated  the  fanner. 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  meditating  on  this 
grave  and  unexpected  news.  But  he  felt  unable 
to  think  of  anything;  he  only  had  confused  visions 
of  his  son  and  a  feeling  of  some  overwhelming 
trouble  of  heart.  At  last  he  took  hold  of  Louis 
Fauvepre's  hand. 

"I  cannot  think  what  to  do,"  he  said.    "Give 


266  "THIS,   MY  SON'1 

me  your  advice,  my  dear  boy;  tell  me  how  to 
act." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  give  you  my  frank  opin- 
ion?" 

"Yes;  tell  it  me." 

"Go  and  bring  your  son  home." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Fauve"pre?  Go  to 
him,  to  a  boy  who  has  lied  to  me!" 

"I  know  it." 

"Who  was  the  cause  of  his  brother's  death,  who 
has  brought  me  nothing  but  poverty  and  shame 
since  he  was  a  man " 

"Maitre  Noellet,"  said  the  young  man  in  a  tone 
of  decision,  "all  that  is  now  past  and  over.  Pierre 
is  ill,  and  you  should  have  no  other  thought  about 
him  now  but  that  he  is  your  child,  and  that  he 
needs  you." 

"If  he  is  ill,  there  are  doctors  over  there  to  look 
after  him,  and  if  when  he  is  well  again  he  wishes 
to  return,  he  is  old  enough  to  find  the  road  that  he 
took  when  he  went  away." 

"He  will  not  return  along  it  alone,  Maitre 
Noellet,  after  your  having  driven  him  away." 

"Besides,  he  has  not  sent  for  me." 

"The  letter  does  that  for  him.  Go  and  bring 
him  home,  Maitre  Noellet." 

"And  after  that?" 

"After  that,  it  will  be  time  to  think  what  else 
to  do.  I  do  not  know  what  will  happen  then,  but 
you  will  have  done  your  duty." 

"And  then  I  have  never  travelled  so  far  in  my 
life,"  said  Noellet,  feeling  staggered. 

"Very  well,  then  you  can  begin  now,"  replied 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  267 

the  young  man.  "It  is  never  too  late  to  do  that. 
If  you  want  a  companion,  take  Antoinette — not 
Marie,  of  course." 

The  farmer  sat  frowning  and  thinking,  with  bent 
head.  Then  he  drew  himself  up,  held  his  glass  up 
to  the  level  of  his  eye,  and  said : 

"You  have  spoken  like  a  man!  Let  us  drink  to 
your  marriage,  Louis  Fauvepre,  for  we  have  not 
done  so  yet." 

They  drank,  put  their  glasses  down  on  the  table, 
and  sat  on  in  silence,  and  the  women,  hearing  that 
their  voices  had  ceased,  came  back  into  the  room 
and  tried  to  read  in  the  men's  faces  to  what  de- 
cision they  had  come. 

Then,  after  another  minute  had  passed,  the 
farmer  looked  at  Fauvepre,  saying: 

"Yes,  my  friend,  I  will  go  and  fetch  my  son." 

Mere  Noellet  clasped  her  hands  together. 

"What  did  you  say?"  she  cried.  "Noellet, 
do  not  cheat  my  hopes.  You  are  going  to  fetch 
him?" 

Filled  with  a  hardly  believable  joy,  she  lent 
toward  them,  interrogating  first  her  husband's 
face,  and  then  that  of  her  future  son-in-law,  not 
able  to  trust  her  own  happiness. 

Noellet  was  paler  than  usual,  but  also  calmer, 
and  pleased  with  his  own  courage. 

Louis  Fauvepre  looked  at  Marie,  proud  of  feeling 
himself  loved,  consulted,  and  almost  worshipped 
by  the  members  of  his  newly-found  home. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


MERE  NOELLET  began  immediately  to  pack  up  in 
preparation  for  the  journey.  It  was  not  a  heavy 
task,  for  the  travellers  only  took  with  them  a  small, 
black-covered  basket,  fastened  with  a  peg,  suffi- 
cient to  hold  a  few  provisions  and  a  handkerchief, 
cap,  and  white  collar  for  Antoinette,  who  wished 
to  do  honour  to  Paris.  But  the  good  woman 
spent  twice  the  time  in  looking  up  these  things 
than  was  necessary.  She  forgot  first  one  and  then 
the  other,  her  thoughts,  winged  with  affection, 
flying  to  her  son,  trying  to  picture  the  joy,  and  to 
fancy  what  the  first  words  would  be,  as  he  stepped 
over  the  threshold  of  La  Geniviere;  for  now  that 
he  was  free  to  return,  she  would  not  even  allow 
herself  to  think  for  a  moment  that  he  would  not 
come  back.  To  return  home,  was  not  that  a  cure 
for  everything?  Mon  Dieu!  how  would  she  be 
able  to  bear  this  great  joy,  she  who  had  never  seen 
him  since  he  left?  And  he,  what  would  he  say 
when  he  saw  his  father  and  Antoinette,  his  favour- 
ite sister,  as  bright  with  youth  as  a  morning  con- 
volvulus, arriving  in  Paris? 

Her  dear  child !  She  forgave  him  so  fully  for  all 
his  sins  that  she  even  asked  herself  if  she  had  ever 
had  any  feeling  against  him  except  the  great  regret 
of  not  being  able  any  longer  to  kiss  him. 

He  ungrateful?    No  one  who  knew  him  could 

268 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  269 

accuse  him  of  that !  On  the  contrary,  how  grateful 
he  had  been  for  all  the  compliments  showered  on 
him,  when  he  ran  home  from  school  with  the  silver 
cross  which  even  now  was  lying  in  the  cupboard 
so  full  of  mementoes  of  the  past !  The  illness  and 
the  trouble  of  which  the  letter  spoke,  were  they  not 
all  due  to  his  having  been  sent  away  from  home? 
Was  it  likely  he  would  not  suffer  when  she,  now 
almost  an  old  woman,  felt  only  half  alive  separated 
from  her  Noellet?  But  now  all  that  was  over. 
Louis  Fauvepre — ah,  the  worthy  man! — had  per- 
suaded the  father  to  take  this  great  journey  to 
Paris,  and  Pierre  would  now  be  sure  to  return. 

She  perpetually  caught  herself  dreaming  like 
this,  and  each  time  began  trotting  off  again  and 
scolding  herself  for  allowing  her  thoughts  to  wan- 
der so  whenever  she  thought  of  her  Noellet. 

The  farmer  and  the  girls  were  already  fast 
asleep  before  she  had  finished  packing  the  basket, 
pinning  the  handkerchief,  and  overhauling  and 
brushing  the  clothes  which  she  spread  ready  for 
the  travellers  on  two  chairs.  Every  one,  herself 
included,  was  up  before  dawn. 

She  lit  a  fire  with  a  fagot  of  vine-branches, 
around  which  there  were  reiterated  farewells,  and 
loving  and  needless  cautions;  and  then  Julien  and 
Antoinette,  deeply  .affected  at  leaving  the  farm, 
were  carried  off  by  La  Roussette  through  the  frosty 
morning  air. 

La  Rousette,  with  her  slender  legs,  was  as  fast 
a  trotter  as  ever,  and  covered  the  ground  like  a 
woodland  doe.  They  reached  Chalonnes  in  good 
time.  The  cart  was  put  up  at  the  hotel.  The 


270  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

travellers  crossed  the  bridges  over  the  Loire  on 
foot,  got  into  the  express  for  Paris,  and,  bumped 
and  shaken,  went  on  without  stopping  until  they 
reached  the  station  of  Saint-Lazare  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

Julien  Noellet  had  passed  the  time  in  conversa- 
tion with  a  sheep-farmer,  and  Antoinette  in  look- 
ing out  of  the  window  at  the  fields  as  they  flew 
dizzily  past. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


"WELL,  here  you  are  in  Paris,  Maitre  Noellet!" 
said  the  sheep-farmer,  as  he  jumped  on  to  the 
platform.  "Go  down  the  Rue  d' Amsterdam,  the 
Rue  du  Havre,  cross  over  the  Boulevard  Hauss- 
man,  and  you  will  then  have  only  about  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  walk  to  the  Rue  Caumartin,  near  the 
large  boulevards,  and  will  find  yourself  opposite 
the  offices  of  the  Don  Juan." 

Whereupon  he  bid  farewell  to  his  fellow-passen- 
gers, who  were  somewhat  alarmed  at  finding  them- 
selves all  alone  so  far  from  home. 

Julien  and  Antoinette,  following  the  directions 
given  them,  started  on  their  walk  across  Paris, 
going  slowly,  and  much  delayed  at  every  crossing 
by  the  number  of  vehicles  that  streamed  past  them. 
They  were  a  curious-looking  couple,  these  two 
peasants,  as  they  stood  on  the  pavement  amid  the 
bustle  and  glitter  of  the  great  city,  which  was 
unusually  alive,  every  one  taking  advantage  of  a 
day  of  sunshine — he  with  his  unsophisticated  ap- 
pearance, his  short  waistcoat,  his  long  hair,  his 
austere  face,  walking  with  the  same  long  strides, 
and  in  the  same  calm,  deliberate  manner,  as  if  he 
was  following  the  plough ;  she,  delicate  and  pretty, 
with  her  black  dress  and  lace  cap,  dazzled  and 
attracted  by  a  thousand  things  at  once.  She 
loitered  a  little  behind  her  father  as  they  passed  in 

271 


272  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

front  of  the  shops,  and  would  have  liked  to  pause 
and  gaze  at  the  windows — the  dresses,  the  jewel- 
lery, the  early  fruits  and  vegetables  from  Algeria 
and  the  south  piled  in  baskets,  the  displays  of 
linen  drapery,  earthenware,  and  even  of  toys — 
everything  tempted  her.  But  her  father  took  her 
by  the  arm,  saying:  "Come,  Toinette,  it  is  your 
brother  we  are  here  to  see."  He  could  think  of 
nothing  but  the  child  for  whose  sake  he  had  left 
La  Geniviere.  There  was  but  one  attraction  for 
him  in  Paris — his  son.  All  his  thoughts  were  oc- 
cupied with  wondering  in  what  condition  he  would 
find  him,  what  he  should  say  to  him,  and  how  he 
should  get  him  home. 

Not  having  the  slightest  acquaintance  with 
Paris,  and  being  unaccustomed  to  look  for  names 
of  streets  on  blue  plates,  they  naturally  lost  their 
way,  and  found  themselves  in  the  Place  de  F0pe*ra, 
surrounded  by  the  immense  concourse  of  human 
beings  who  flooded  the  boulevards.  They  made 
their  way  now  with  some  difficulty,  jostled  against 
one  another,  and  occasioning  a  momentary  sur- 
prise as  they  threaded  the  crowd.  People  turned 
round  for  an  instant  to  look  at  them.  Antoinette, 
full  of  wonder,  opened  wide  her  golden-lashed  eyes. 
Her  sixteen  years  were  like  a  song  that  appealed  to 
everybody's  heart,  and  many  felt  theirs  grow 
younger  for  having  only  brushed  past  her  in  the 
crowd,  and  remarked  with  brightening  humour : 

"What  a  pretty  girl!"  Yes,  look  at  her  well, 
you  men  and  women  of  the  pavement;  it  is  the 
deep-musing  country,  the  spring,  that  is  passing. 
When  the  spring  goes  by  our  souls  take  wing. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  273 

Julien  Noellet,  tired  with  the  noise  that  seemed 
deafening  after  the  silence  he  was  accustomed  to, 
stood  still  at  the  corner  of  the  boulevard,  and  said 
to  his  daughter: 

"Ask  some  one  where  the  offices  of  the  Don 
Juan  are,  Antoinette.  We  shall  never  get  there. 
The  houses  here  are  too  many." 

"My  pretty  child,"  answered  the  costermonger 
she  had  questioned,  "you  are  close  by;  two  steps 
farther,  the  second  on  the  right." 

A  little  more  searching  about,  and  at  last  they 
were  in  the  Rue  Caumartin,  and  had  reached  the 
offices  of  the  Don  Juan. 

For  the  first  time  the  farmer  looked  round  him 
with  some  curiosity.  To  the  left  was  the  boule- 
vard he  had  just  left,  to  the  right  a  continuation  of 
the  street  he  was  in,  and  facing  him  a  large  folding 
door  standing  open  and  leading  into  a  vestibule 
piled  with  packages  of  tied-up  papers.  Overhead, 
on  a  level  with  the  first  floor,  was  written  in  red 
letters  on  a  transparent  background,  "The  Don 
Juan,  literary,  social,  and  financial  paper,  ten 
centimes." 

The  farmer,  followed  by  Antoinette,  ascended 
the  dusty  staircase,  and  soon  came  to  the  landing, 
where  he  saw  two  doors:  Manager's  Office,  Editor's 
Office.  These  words  conveyed  no  meaning  to  him. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  still,  holding  his  hand  to 
his  heart,  which  was  beating  violently;  then  he 
opened  one  of  them  on  chance. 

A  clerk,  heavy  with  sleep  and  idleness,  his 
elbows  on  a  blotting-pad,  looked  up.  At  sight  of 
the  Noellets  he  smiled  patronizingly,  as  much  as 


274  "THIS,   MY   SON'3 

to  say:  "You  must  have  come  a  long  way  not  to 
know  that  there  is  nobody  at  the  Dan  Juan  before 
eight  o'clock,  that  at  eight  o'clock  I  light  up  and 
take  my  stand  at  the  telephone";  but  he  merely 
asked: 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  see?" 

"We  wish  to  see  Pierre  Noellet,"  answered  the 
farmer. 

"You  are  lucky;  he  is  the  only  one  of  the  staff 
who  is  here  during  these  hours." 

"Then  he  is  here?" 

"Yes;  but  one  might  as  well  say  that  he  is  not." 

"He  is  ill,  is  he  not?" 

"How  do  you  know?  Who  are  you,  may  I 
ask?" 

"I  am  his  father,  Julien  Noellet,  from  Fief- 
Sauvin." 

He  spoke  with  a  quiet  dignity,  which  seemed  to 
awaken  some  ancient  feeling  of  respect  in  this 
official. 

"I  had  a  good  man  for  my  father,  who  was 
something  like  you,  Monsieur  Noellet,"  he  said. 
He  rose,  looked  at  the  farmer  a  moment,  and 
added:  "Since  you  have  come  to  see  your  son, 
I  ought  perhaps  to  warn  you  that  he  may  not 
recognize  you.  He  has  had  a  great  trouble,  poor 
young  man!  I  do  not  know  rightly  what  it  is. 
It  is  nearly  three  months  ago  now.  He  has  taken 
to  drinking  absinthe,  and  you  know  that  spares 
nobody.  He  came  here  his  head  all  muddled  and 
unable  to  do  his  work.  Monsieur  Thie"nard  saw 
the  state  of  things,  and  some  scenes  took  place. 
And,  well,  the  day  before  yesterday " 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  275 

"What  then?" 

"Your  son  was  dismissed.  It  is  a  pity — a 
promising  young  man.  But,  then,  this  cursed 
absinthe  has  got  hold  of  him.  He  no  longer 
knows  what  he  is  doing,  and  for  two  days  past  he 
has  come  here  as  if  he  had  never  been  sent  away. 
I  let  him  be  in  the  sub-editorial  room,  since  nobody 
comes  there  during  the  afternoon,  and  he  sleeps." 

"Take  me  to  him/'  said  Noellet. 

The  man  led  them  through  a  padded  door  and 
along  a  passage.  At  the  end  was  the  sub-editorial 
room,  with  its  vulgar  fittings  and  green  wall-papers, 
a  long  table  running  down  the  middle,  overhung 
with  gas-jets  in  the  shape  of  circumflex  accents, 
each  capped  with  a  fringed  shade,  and  there,  on  a 
sofa  against  the  wall,  his  eyes  shut,  very  pale,  in  a 
heavy  drunken  sleep,  lay  his  son. 

A  great  pity  overcame  the  father.  Before  him 
rose  the  remembrance  of  the  strong,  healthy 
Vende'ean  he  had  reared.  Could  that  emaciated 
young  man  lying  there  really  be  his  Pierre?  Was 
the  thin  blue  blood  which  hardly  coloured  his 
brow  the  red  blood  of  the  Noellets  that  had 
formerly  blossomed  on  his  lips?  It  was,  indeed, 
high  time  that  he  should  come  and  carry  his  child 
away  into  his  own  country! 

With  two  or  three  rapid  strides  he  crossed  the 
room,  and,  lifting  his  son's  head  with  both  his 
hands,  cried  in  a  trembling  voice : 

' '  Pierre,  Pierre,  my  boy,  wake  up ;  it  is  I ! "  And 
as  Pierre  still  did  not  open  his  eyes,  "It  is  I,"  he 
repeated,  "and  Antoinette;  it  is  La  Geniviere 
come  to  Paris!" 


276  'THIS,   MY   SON" 

Antoinette  had  taken  one  of  the  limp  hands  in 
hers,  and  was  kissing  it  as  she  knelt  beside  her 
brother. 

The  warmth  of  this  child's  kiss  brought  a  mo- 
mentary awakening  from  the  heavy  intoxication 
that  was  weighing  upon  Pierre.  He  opened  his 
eyes,  gave  a  stupefied  stare  at  Antoinette's  white 
cap,  and  then  looked  up  at  his  father,  who  was 
standing  motionless  in  front  of  him.  A  little 
shudder  passed  over  him,  as  if  of  fear. 

"Father!"  he  murmured,  "father!" 

His  head  fell  back  again  on  the  sofa,  and  the 
transitory  gleam  of  consciousness  that  had  enabled 
him  to  recognize  his  father  was  succeeded  by  the 
former  dull  torpor  of  sleep. 

It  was  a  disgraceful  sight,  this  young,  handsome, 
cultivated  man  lying  there  like  a  brute  beast,  with 
the  inertness  of  a  log.  In  vain  had  Pierre  cast  off 
his  belongings,  in  vain  mixed  with  the  world;  he 
still  remained  at  bottom  a  man  of  the  people; 
their  passions  had  but  slumbered  within  him,  and 
they  had  suddenly  awakened  as  soon  as  he  lost 
the  ambition  that  had  transformed  him. 

With  the  first  trouble  that  fell  on  him  he  had 
turned  to  drink,  like  any  farm  labourer  who  has 
just  received  his  dismissal. 

Julien  felt  a  keen  shame,  and  the  look  of  com- 
miseration on  the  face  of  the  witness  of  this  scene 
was  acute  suffering  to  him.  His  honour  was  never 
slow  to  speak,  and  he  came  to  an  abrupt  resolution. 

"At  what  hour  does  he  generally  wake?"  he 
asked. 

"Toward  evening.    But  he  is  no  better  in  his 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  277 

mind  even  then.  You  can  see  that  he  is  killing 
himself,  poor  lad." 

"I  do,  indeed.    Where  are  his  things?" 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation;  then  the  man 
answered: 

"I  am  afraid  he  has  nothing  left,  Monsieur 
Noellet;  he  has  sold  everything." 

"Where  does  he  lodge?" 

"He  has  changed  his  rooms,  and  I  could  not  tell 
you  where  he  lives  now." 

The  farmer  made  no  further  inquiries;  he  did 
not  even  trouble  himself  to  consider  whether  this 
man  might  possibly  be  lying  and  taking  advantage 
of  the  exceptional  situation  into  which  chance  had 
brought  him,  for  he  had  but  one  thought — to  go 
away,  to  save  his  son. 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  said  "I  will  take  him 
away  at  once." 

"Where  to?" 

"Straight  to  the  station." 

"There  is  no  train  before  this  evening,  Monsieur 
Noellet." 

"I  will  wait,  then.  I  care  about  nothing,  so  that 
I  can  get  him  out  of  the  town.  It  was  on  his  ac- 
count alone  that  I  came,  you  understand,  and  I 
wish  to  take  him  away." 

The  man  had  already  got  his  head  out  of  the 
window  and  was  hailing  an  empty  cab. 


And  so  it  was  that  the  following  night  Julien 
Noellet,  who  sat  motionless  in  the  corner  of  the 
carriage,  took  his  two  children,  who  were  lying  on 


278  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

the  opposite  seat,  back  to  Vended.  There  were 
no  other  passengers  in  the  carriage.  Paris,  already 
left  far  behind,  was  being  gradually  hidden  from 
view  by  the  villas  and  thick  trees  that  bordered 
the  line.  A  line  of  lights  running  along  some 
sloping  or  winding  suburban  road  could  just  be 
seen  now  and  then  through  the  opening  of  a  narrow 
cutting,  a  last  breach  giving  access  to  the  great 
city.  The  train  sped  along  with  the  slight  rolling 
movement  that  is  so  lulling  in  its  effect.  Pierre 
and  Antoinette  were  both  asleep,  lying  nearly  full 
length  under  the  light  of  the  lamp.  The  old 
peasant  did  not  tire  of  contemplating  them.  His 
heart  was  full  of  tender  emotion,  full  of  recollec- 
tions. At  moments,  irresistibly  overcome  with 
fatigue,  he  fancied  that  it  was  ten  years  earlier, 
when  they  were  both  still  small,  and  that  he  was 
going  softly  with  bare  feet  about  the  two  rooms  at 
La  Geniviere  to  look  at  his  sleeping  family. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


PIERRE  woke  up  long  before  they  reached  La 
Geniviere.  His  father,  who  had  been  waiting 
for  this  moment,  said: 

"Well,  my  child,  do  you  know  where  we  are 
going?  We  are  getting  near  Vended  now.  We 
shall  be  home  before  noon.  Are  you  glad?" 

But  Pierre  made  no  reply.  All  through  the 
journey  he  had  been  in  a  kind  of  dreamlike  stupor, 
letting  himself  be  ordered  and  taken  about  like 
a  child.  Nothing  seemed  to  rouse  him  out  of  it, 
not  even  the  arrival  at  the  farm,  the  sight  and 
kisses  of  Mere  Noellet,  who  was  half  out  of  her 
mind  with  joy,  his  sisters'  questioning,  or  the 
familiar  surroundings  of  La  Geniviere.  He  was 
entirely  and  stupidly  indifferent.  There  was  not  a 
spark  of  life  in  his  eyes,  which  had  been  so  full  of 
fire.  When  he  now  and  then  spoke  a  few  words, 
it  was  as  if  he  was  not  certain  of  his  speech.  He 
had  to  make  an  effort  to  understand  what  was 
said  to  him,  and  the  effort  brought  on  a  fresh 
collapse.  The  poison  with  which  he  had  been 
saturating  himself  for  months  past  seemed  to  have 
taken  all  the  life  out  of  him.  "He  is  very  ill," 
thought  all  the  good  people  of  La  Geniviere.  And 
moved  with  a  concealed  pity,  they  did  not  linger 
long  about  him,  but  dispersed  here  and  there  to 

279 


280  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

their  several  duties :  Marie,  Antoinette,  the  father, 
and  the  farm-servant,  who  had  run  up  on  hearing 
the  cart  drive  in.  The  daily  work  began  again 
round  Pierre,  who  sat  near  the  fire  burying  his 
face  in  his  hands.  Mere  Noellet  alone,  having  no 
heart  for  work,  remained  beside  him.  She  had 
hoped  for  a  happier  return  of  her  child.  She  went 
from  room  to  room  until  the  evening,  ceaselessly 
looking  after  and  attending  upon  him,  watching 
and  waiting  for  the  other  return  that  she  was 
expecting.  But  she  watched  in  vain.  None  of 
her  tender  maternal  ministrations  succeeded  in 
arousing  her  son  from  his  melancholy  torpor. 
When  night  came  she  sorrowfully  pointed  to  the 
bed  which  had  been  his  in  former  times,  and  Pierre, 
worn  out,  lay  down  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

It  was  near  morning,  but  still  quite  dark,  when 
Pierre  awoke  to  full  consciousness. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  trembled.  The  feeling 
familiar  to  his  youth  came  over  him  again,  the 
shuddering  feeling  of  those  moments  of  waking 
amid  the  absolute  silence  of  the  country,  the  sense 
of  the  surrounding  darkness,  of  being  a  mere  dot 
lost  in  the  immensity  of  shadow.  He  put  his 
hands  out  gropingly  to  feel  the  smoked  posts  of 
his  bed.  It  was  really  then  La  Geniviere,  the  nest 
of  his  childhood,  where  he  and  Jacques  had  been 
together  in  the  old  happy  days.  He  saw  again  all 
the  faces  of  those  belonging  to  him,  of  Antoinette 
and  Marie,  of  his  father  and  mother,  as  if  they 
were  actually  looking  at  him  through  the  wall. 
Dear  eyes,  full  of  tender  reproach,  gazing  long  and 
searchingly  at  him.  A  thousand  visions  of  the 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  281 

past  rose  up  before  him.  And  with  delight  Pierre 
became  aware  that  he  had  recovered  the  free 
power  of  thought.  He  rose  and  put  his  ear  to  the 
door.  He  could  hear  the  calm  breathing  of  his 
sleeping  sisters.  He  went  and  looked  up  the  wide 
opening  under  the  sloping  projection  of  the  great 
chimney-piece.  He  could  see  the  stars,  already 
paling,  passing  overhead.  A  little  chirrup  came 
from  a  bird  in  the  courtyard.  It  was  the  robin 
redbreast  at  roost  on  the  wood-stack,  a  vigilant 
watchman,  who  was  in  the  habit  during  the  night 
of  making  known  in  this  way  that  all  was  well. 
Pierre  recognized  the  sound  and  smiled.  He  lay 
down  again,  and  continued  his  gentle  dreaming, 
greatly  moved  at  finding  himself  at  home  once 
more,  and  at  feeling  the  child's  heart  being  born 
anew  within  him.  Soon  he  heard  a  linnet  giving 
notice  of  the  dawn  with  a  hesitating  prelude  of 
song,  then  it  was  a  blackbird,  and  the  magpies 
giving  chase  to  one  another  among  the  trees  of 
the  ravine.  A  flight  of  crows  brushed  against  the 
roof  in  the  early  twilight.  A  glimmer  of  light  shot 
through  the  window :  the  dawn!  the  dawn! 

And  the  father,  coming  out  of  his  room,  crept 
up  to  the  side  of  his  son's  bed,  and  to  his  astonish- 
ment found  him  awake. 

"Are  you  feeling  better,  my  boy?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  father." 

"Do  you  remember  that  I  came  to  fetch  you 
from  Paris  the  day  before  yesterday?" 

"Very  indistinctly.  I  could  fancy  that  my 
coming  here  was  all  a  dream." 

"Are  you  vexed  with  me  for  doing  so?" 


282  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

Pierre  turned  his  head  a  little  aside,  as  if 
ashamed,  and  answered: 

"Father,  you  did  well  to  bring  me  away." 

There  was  some  reluctance  and  a  great  deal  of 
pride  still  in  this  acknowledgement,  but  the  father 
went  away  happy. 

Neither  on  this  day  nor  on  any  of  the  succeeding 
ones  did  Julien  and  his  son  ever  refer  to  the  past. 
Of  what  use  to  do  so?  For  the  present,  however 
unhappy  the  past  and  uncertain  the  future,  the 
farmer  had  his  child  back  again,  and  he  asked 
for  nothing  more.  He  knew  the  value  of  these 
truces  in  life.  He  was  rejoicing  in  this  one.  His 
dear  Vendee,  he  thought,  could  not  fail  to  be  a 
good  adviser  to  this  son  she  had  recovered,  and 
so  he  held  his  peace,  and  let  her  do  her  work. 
Later  on  one  would  see — one  would  talk  about 
things.  And  the  home,  being  now  full  again, 
seemed  dearer  to  him  again.  He  began  to  come 
in  earlier  than  had  been  his  custom,  and  as  he 
looked  round  on  his  family  the  old  happy  expres- 
sion it  had  lost  for  so  long  came  over  his  face  once 
more. 

As  for  Pierre,  the  resurrection  had  begun.  He 
kept  very  much  to  himself,  avoided  the  town,  and 
generally  started  early  in  the  morning  and  went 
right  away  into  the  fields.  The  country  wel- 
comed him,  and  gathered  him  to  her  heart  with 
the  great  tender  smile  she  keeps  for  those  who 
have  loved  her.  He  roved  at  large  about  it, 
walking  slowly  in  whichever  direction  chance 
might  lead  him,  listening  to  the  voice  of  his  native 
Vende*e,  who  had  known  him  when  he  was  young 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  283 

and  glad  to  be  alive.  She  spoke  to  him  of  his 
childhood.  She  worked  on  him  with  the  memories 
brought  back  by  every  step  he  took;  little  by  little 
the  things  which  he  had  thought  dead  revived 
within  him:  peace,  energy,  confidence  in  the 
future — a  rather  uncertain  confidence  as  yet,  but 
strong  enough  to  be  consoling.  He  took  hold  of 
life  again,  and  life  took  hold  of  him.  The  salubri- 
ous air  of  the  heaths,  the  long  walks,  the  calm  of 
mind,  all  helped  to  bring  back  some  colour  to  his 
cheeks.  His  eyes  regained  some  of  their  former 
brightness,  and  became  less  wandering  in  their 
expression.  He  returned  home  every  day  a  little 
better  and  stronger  both  in  mind  and  body. 

There  was  only  one  group  of  trees  toward  which 
he  never  turned  his  eyes,  one  direction  in  which 
he  never  walked.  So  many  bitter  feelings  were 
still  brooding  at  his  heart!  How  could  he  bear 
the  sight  of  that  park,  of  that  house,  where 
Madeleine  Laubriet  reigned  as  mistress — Made- 
leine, who  before  long —  Whenever,  at  some  turn 
of  the  road,  the  rounded  tops  of  certain  wide- 
spreading  oak-trees  or  the  slender  outline  of  a 
certain  poplar  swaying  down  there  in  the  wind 
came  in  view,  Pierre  quickly  turned  away. 

Was  this  near  neighbourhood  of  La  Landehue 
the  only  reason,  then,  that  prevented  him  for 
two  whole  weeks  from  going  to  see  Me*lie  Rainette? 
Alas,  no.  He  accused  himself  of  ingratitude,  and 
reproached  himself  afresh  every  day  for  giving  no 
sign  of  remembrance,  or  even  the  compensation  of 
a  word  of  gratitude,  to  this  unfortunate  girl  who 
had  suffered  ill-treatment  on  his  account.  Never- 


284  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

theless,  he  kept  away  from  her.  He  was  afraid 
of  the  secret  that  he  had  once  confided  to  her,  and 
which  might  give  her  occasion  to  triumph  over 
him.  "What  has  become  of  Madeleine  Lande- 
hue?"  she  would  say.  "My  poor  friend,  she  is 
married."  And  he  seemed  to  hear  the  vindictive 
raillery  of  Me" lie's  voice,  for  her  feeling  of  friend- 
ship for  him — such  was  the  name  he  gave  to  the 
devotion  she  had  shown  him — had  probably  be- 
come embittered  by  neglect  and  poverty. 

In  spite  of  his  fine  philosophy,  he  was  surely  a 
bad  judge  of  such  a  love  and  such  a  woman. 

However,  he  at  last  overcame  his  reluctance, 
and  one  afternoon  walked  to  the  town  by  the  path 
which  ran  along  outside  her  garden.  As  he  drew 
near  the  garden  gate,  he  saw  Me'lie  Rainette,  who 
was  pretending  to  be  busy  weeding.  She  had  been 
working  like  this  for  some  hours  every  day  for 
nearly  a  fortnight  past,  in  daily  expectation  of 
the  visit  which  he  more  than  owed  her.  He  was 
struck  with  her  pallor,  and  with  the  somewhat 
scornful  dignity  of  her  manner.  She  reminded 
him  of  Madonnas  he  had  seen  at  exhibitions  in 
Paris,  with  her  eyes  that,  set  in  their  dark  circles, 
looked  too  large  for  the  small  oval  of  the  face. 

She  showed  no  sign  of  surprise  on  seeing  him, 
and  went  up  to  the  gate  before  he  had  time  to 
open  it. 

He  had  better  perhaps  remain  on  the  further 
side  as  if  a  mere  passer-by,  since  the  town  had 
given  her  such  a  bad  name.  He  understood,  and 
remained  standing,  watching  her  approach.  She 
was  poorly  clad  in  a  very  shabby  dress — she, 


« 


THIS,   MY  SON"  285 


Me"lie,  formerly  so  dainty  in  her  attire — and  had 
on  wooden  shoes.  She  looked  almost  like  a 
beggar. 

She  paused,  leaning  on  the  handle  of  her  garden 
spade. 

"You  were  passing  this  way?"  she  said  sadly. 

"No,  I  have  come  to  see  you.  I  ought  to  have 
come  before,  I  know " 

"You  owed  me  nothing,"  she  interrupted; 
"there  is  no  need  to  make  excuses.  Have  you 
been  ill?" 

"Yes." 

"With  trouble,  I  suppose?  My  poor  Pierre,  if 
you  knew  how  distressed  I  felt  for  you  when  I 
heard  that  Madeleine  Laubriet  was  going  to  be 
married." 

There  was  no  mockery  in  her  voice — far  from 
it.  She  looked  so  kind  and  sympathetic  that  her 
pity  quite  overcame  him.  He  yielded  to  the  bitter 
pleasure  enjoyed  by  those  who  suffer,  and  began 
talking  of  his  own  trouble. 

"If  you  knew,"  he  said,  "what  it  is  to  love,  and 
all  at  once  to  feel  oneself  despised,  rejected,  as  I 
have  been." 

"Yes,  I  know;  the  heart  breaks  under  it." 

"I  felt  so  lonely,  Me*lie,  when  this  dream,  which 
had  been  with  me  since  I  was  a  child,  was  taken 
from  me." 

"In  truth,  when  a  sorrow  like  that  falls  upon 
one,  it  seems  as  if  there  was  no  longer  any  meaning 
in  life.  As  for  work,  it  becomes  altogether  dis- 
tasteful." 

"  Yes,  I  left  off  work ;  I  lost  my  post;  I  was  out 


286  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

of  my  senses.  And  I  am  still,  truth  to  say,  for 
there  is  not  an  hour  of  the  day  when  I  am  not 
thinking  of  her." 

"To  dwell  on  that  which  never  can  and  never 
will  be,  that  is  torture." 

"Yes,  M61ie,  and  to  recall  the  days  of  hope  is 
another." 

"One  has  no  power  to  drive  away  the  memory 
of  those  days;  whether  they  were  happy  or  un- 
happy, they  are  all  sad  now  in  some  way  or 
other.  And  you  made  so  many  sacrifices  for  her, 
Pierre." 

"They  were  all  for  her,  Melie — even  the  sacrifice 
of  my  parents." 

"They  cost  you  nothing,  then." 

"Nothing;  I  offered  them  to  her  as  secret 
pledges  of  my  love." 

"But  I  expect  you  have  counted  them  over  since 
in  anger,  asking  yourself  how  so  much  devotion, 
so  much  affection  lavished  for  years " 

"For  ten  years." 

"Yes,  for  years  and  years,  could  have  been 
unperceived  by  her." 

"Yes,  it  is  so,  as  you  say." 

"How  any  one  could  trample  a  poor  human 
being  under  foot  as  heedlessly  as  one  might  an 
uncomplaining  bit  of  ivy  or  moss." 

"It  is  wonderful,  Me*h'e.  How  exactly  you  un- 
derstand these  things!" 

One  of  those  smiles  that  lessen  none  of  the 
sadness  of  a  face,  for  they  come  from  the  sad 
depths  of  the  heart,  rose  to  Melie's  lips. 

"I?"  she  said.    "My  life  has  been  very  lonely, 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  287 

and  I  have  known  some  suffering.  That  is  how 
I  come  to  understand." 

"Yes,  Me"lie,  you  with  your  heart  and  your 
intelligence,  you  can  understand  how  I  feel 
picturing  her  as  the  wife  of  another  man — a  man 
inferior  to  me  in  intellect — who  has  neither  fought 
nor  suffered  for  her  as  I  have,  and  who  had  neither 
reputation,  nor  any  artistic  or  scientific  work,  or 
self-made  fortune,  nor  indeed  the  least  personal 
effort  or  sacrifice  to  offer  her  in  homage.  Ah, 
would  I  knew  what  was  in  the  hearts  of  these 
rich  girls,  and  how  these  favoured  ones  feel!  I 
would  I  knew  for  certain  whether  she  ever  felt 
for  me " 

"What?" 

"The  least  feeling  akin  to  love;  a  secret  esteem 
or  even  just  a  little  pity." 

"Do  not  think  about  that,  Pierre.  There  is 
only  one  thing  for  you  now:  to  set  to  work  and 
resign  yourself  to  fate." 

"I  am  far  from  that  as  yet." 

' '  Not  so  far  as  you  think.  With  a  little  courage, 
you  will  soon  have  overcome  all  your  anger  and 
resentment,  and  be  able  to  wish  happiness  to  those 
who  have  ignored  you,  even  though  it  cannot 
come  from  you " 

"Never!    You  do  not  know  me." 

"You  will  be  able  to  say  to  yourself,  should  you 
ever  see  her  again,  'You,  whom  I  loved,  I  know 
that  I  can  never  be  anything  to  you;  nevertheless, 
I  am  happy  if  you  are  happy.' " 

And  she  added  very  softly: 

"Believe  me,  Pierre,  it  is  possible." 


288  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

Pierre  Noellet  looked  with  astonishment  at  the 
unpretending  weaver  of  Fief-Sauvin,  who,  in  this 
simple  and  natural  way,  was  urging  upon  him  so 
dignified  and  noble  an  attitude  of  behaviour. 

"Melie,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  so  perfect  as  you; 
I  feel  weak  and  passionate,  but  I  thank  you  all 
the  same.  You  have  done  me  good." 

Again  the  sad  smile  crossed  the  girl's  face,  and 
she  said: 

"It  is  because  we  have  been  talking  of  her." 

"  Perhaps.  I  shall  come  and  see  you  again, 
Me"lie." 

"At  the  end  of  another  fortnight?" 

"Don't  be  spiteful.  Where  shall  I  be  this  day 
fortnight?  I  dare  not  think  about  it.  No,  to- 
morrow." 

"But  to-morrow,  Pierre,  is  your  sister's  wed- 
ding day." 

"Just  so.  You  can  guess  that  I  shall  run  away 
from  all  that  noise  and  gaiety  as  quickly  as  I  can. 
And  since  you  are  not  among  the  invited  guests,  I 
shall  come  here  after  supper,  may  I?" 

"Yes,  while  the  dancing  is  going  on  down  there. 
How  happy  Marie  is!" 

Me"lie  Rainette  could  not  finish  her  sentence. 

Pierre's  unconscious  cruelty,  the  contrast  be- 
tween Marie's  fate  and  her  own,  were  too  much  for 
her  courageous  resolutions,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

"You  are  hurt  at  not  having  been  invited?" 
said  Pierre.  "It  is  partly  my  fault,  my  dear  girl; 
forgive  me." 

He  put  his  arm  over  the  gate  and  took  her  hand. 

"To-morrow,  then,"  he  added;   "to-morrow." 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  289 

But  no  look  of  pleasure  came  into  Melie's  face; 
on  the  contrary,  her  eyes  filled  with  a  deep  sorrow, 
and  she  replied,  her  voice  choked  with  tears, 
which  she  tried  in  vain  to  check : 

"Yes,  Pierre,  to-morrow  we  will  talk  about  her 
again." 

He  left  her  feeling  disturbed.  This  Me"lie,  what 
was  the  matter  with  her?  She  was  a  girl  of  hum- 
ble birth,  but  certainly  of  very  refined  mind,  and 
with  such  keen  perception  of  feeling. 

"Yes,"  thought  Pierre  to  himself,  "she  said 
several  things  to  me  which  would  never  have 
occurred  to  many  better  educated  women.  I 
talked  of  nothing  but  myself  and  my  troubles. 
She  had  no  complaint  to  make,  and  yet  life  has 
been  hard  for  her,  too.  She  would  make  an 
excellent  wife,  self-sacrificing  and  devoted;  strong, 
faithful  natures  like  hers  must  bring  great  happi- 
ness to  those  who  are  born  to  be  happy." 

He  went  along  the  path  till  he  reached  the  spot 
near  MeUie's  garden,  whence,  on  account  of  a  gap 
in  the  hedge,  one  could  get  a  view  of  Landehue. 
He  turned  his  head,  and  there  suddenly  before  him 
was  the  park,  with  its  great  masses  of  trees,  and 
the  meadows  with  their  hawthorn  hedges.  Alas, 
those  fresh  young  leaves!  Those  newly-raked 
paths  that  widened  out  in  front  of  the  white  stone 
flight  of  steps,  those  flowering  beds  silent,  that 
house  which  one  felt  was  on  the  point  of  throwing 
open  its  doors,  were  they  not  all  signs  of  the 
approaching  nuptial?  He  passed  quickly  on  and 
reached  La  Geniviere.  There,  in  the  courtyard, 
he  found  three  youths  setting  up  a  tall  Maypole, 


290  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

round  which  were  hung  barrels  garnished  with 
bottles.  Their  loud  laughter,  the  blows  of  their 
pickaxes  and  bars  of  iron  on  the  flinty  ground 
could  be  heard  far  afield.  La  Geniviere  also  was 
preparing  for  festivity.  To-morrow  Marie  was  to 
be  married.  The  Mauges  would  soon  be  able  to 
boast  of  another  happy  family.  Marie  had  loved 
a  plain  blacksmith;  she  had  been  without  ambi- 
tion, and  had  found  happiness. 
"And  I?"  thought  Pierre  sorrowfully,  "and  I?" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


IT  was  a  fine  affair,  this  wedding  of  Marie's.  The 
sun,  without  which  nothing  is  beautiful,  had 
joined  in  the  festivity  from  early  morning.  Its 
rays  fell  warmly  through  the  breaks  in  the  gray 
mesh  of  clouds  that  covered  the  sky.  The  tem- 
perate joy  of  the  weather  shed  its  influence  on  all 
around.  Clothed  in  the  mild  light,  the  houses 
of  Fief-Sauvin  took  on  an  air  of  amiability.  The 
bells  rang  out  so  clearly  that  all  the  Mauges  must 
have  heard  them.  The  whole  population  of  the 
town  was  at  their  doors.  And  when,  as  the  clock 
struck  ten,  Marie  emerged  from  the  church  on  the 
arm  of  Louis  Fauvepre,  when  the  fiddler  rushed 
from  the  tavern  to  take  his  place  at  the  head  of 
the  procession,  which  was  to  escort  Marie  home, 
then  was  the  time  for  every  one  to  admire  Marie's 
bridal  dress  of  black  poplin,  her  thick-ribbed 
shawl  of  white  silk,  the  flowing  ribbons  which  fell 
from  her  waist  to  the  ground,  her  fine  lace  head- 
dress, and  the  wreath  that  might  have  been 
gathered  from  the  orange-trees  of  La  Landehue. 
A  handsome  pair,  in  truth!  Louis  Fauvepre 
radiant,  Marie  bashful  at  the  many  eyes  turned 
upon  her,  and  at  her  own  happiness,  which  she 
could  not  hide.  The  fiddler  himself  was  proud 
of  them.  What  flourishes  of  the  bow!  How  the 
thin  fingers  of  the  humpbacked  tailor  flew  over 

291 


292  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

the  strings!  As  he  passed  along  playing,  the 
young  people  began  fidgeting  their  feet,  moved 
with  a  longing  to  dance,  while  the  old  ones  grew 
bold  enough  to  walk  a  few  steps  without  their 
sticks,  which  they  waved  above  their  heads. 

There  were  at  least  two  hundred  persons  in  the 
procession — all  the  relations  and  all  the  friends, 
except  Me" lie  Rainette,  were  there.  They  passed 
slowly  down  through  the  town,  and  then,  turning 
off  the  high  road,  followed  the  path  that  led  to  the 
farm.  Hardly  a  year  had  passed  since  they  had 
all  trod  that  same  way;  it  was  the  same  time  of 
year;  the  same  apple  trees  were  in  flower, 'the 
same  wind  blowing  through  the  trees,  but  then 
they  were  carrying  Jacques  to  his  grave. 

Were  there  any  among  them  who  remembered 
this?  The  trees  did,  without  doubt,  for  they  gave 
to  the  happiness  that  was  passing  what  they  had 
given  before  to  the  sorrow — a  rain  of  white 
blossoms. 

And  still  the  fiddle  went  on  with  its  tune,  which 
was  no  less  enlivening  than  a  call  to  hounds. 
When,  as  the  bridal  party  neared  the  farm,  the 
boys  in  hiding  behind  the  banks  began  shooting 
off  their  pistols,  and  duck-guns,  and  blunderbusses 
to  "kill  the  bride,"  causing  everybody  to  scream, 
its  shrill  voice  could  still  be  heard  above  the 
fusillade.  The  fiddle  was  afraid  of  nothing.  Its 
song  was  very  old.  It  had  played  for  the  farmers 
to  dance  before  the  Revolution,  and  perhaps  for 
the  soldiers  among  the  broom,  during  the  great 
war.  The  willows  by  the  Evre  knew  it  well. 
And  so  they  repeated  it  with  a  good  will,  as  the 


293 

bride  and  bridegroom  entered  the  courtyard, 
where  the  Maypole  was  standing,  surrounded 
below  by  bundles  of  wood  and  at  the  top  by  bot- 
tles; as  the  bride  took  her  place  at  table,  and  as  the 
guests,  towards  the  middle  of  dinner,  rose  for  the 
danse  des  presents,  each  having  brought  his 
offering — a  piece  of  cloth  from  Cholet,  glass  candle- 
sticks, piles  of  plates,  or,  like  the  magnificent  lady 
of  independent  fortune,  Me>e  Mitard,  a  cleft  stick 
hung  with  silver  pieces. 

The  dinner,  which  lasted  three  hours,  was  given 
under  the  shed,  which  was  supplemented  by  a  tent 
that  had  been  hired,  together  with  the  benches, 
the  tables,  and  other  things,  from  a  caterer  at 
Beaupre*au.  After  it  was  over  they  danced  on  the 
threshing-floor;  there  were  jigs  and  gavottes,  and 
even  a  sort  of  quadrille  introduced  by  the  regi- 
mental friends  of  Louis  Fauvepre,  all  to  the  same, 
or  very  nearly  the  same,  tune.  Two  bagpipes  had 
now  come  to  the  assistance  of  the  fiddle.  The 
uproarious  revelry  and  violent  exertion  of  body 
and  legs  went  on  till  dark,  under  the  open  sky 
and  the  eye  of  the  elders  who  sat  in  groups  round 
the  rising  ground. 

And,  it  being  then  late,  they  all  sat  down  again 
to  table. 

The  earlier  exuberance  of  spirit  had  now  sub- 
sided. A  few  dark,  handsome,  young  farmers' 
sons,  as  powerful  as  their  oxen,  still  continued  to 
joke,  and  talked  of  dancing  again  after  supper. 
But  most  of  the  guests  were  beginning  to  feel  the 
fatigue  of  the  long  drawn-out  festivities.  The 
girls,  with  tired  faces,  became  grave  and  silent,  and 


294  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

made  but  feeble  response  to  the  advances  of  their 
admirers.  The  elder  women  were  already  thinking 
of  the  return  home  with  a  driver  not  quite  too  sure 
of  his  way.  They  shot  stealthy  glances  at  their 
husbands,  their  sons,  or  brothers,  and  seeing  them 
either  redder  or  paler  in  face  than  was  natural  to 
them,  they  greeted  the  broad  jokes  and  the  obli- 
gatory songs  on  such  occasions  as  the  present  with 
only  perfunctory  smiles.  For  the  good  old 
custom  of  past  times  was  over;  the  women  no 
longer  brought  their  deep  goblets,  nor  the  men  the 
little  cups  of  silver  plate,  which  they  hung  from 
their  button-holes,  a  wise  and  temperate  practice ! 
Only  a  few  old  men  still  kept  it  up.  The  others 
drank  their  full  glasses  of  wine  from  the  slopes  of 
the  Loire  and  the  Sevre,  and  grew  more  and  more 
excited,  to  the  despair  of  the  women,  who  became 
increasingly  irresponsive  and  uneasy. 

Nothing  can  be  more  lugubrious  than  a  feast 
in  certain  states  of  mind.  All  day  Pierre  Noellet 
had  been  fighting  against  the  dark  melancholy 
that  had  taken  possession  of  him,  destroying  all 
happiness  and  courage,  all  revived  hope  and  calm 
forgetfulness  of  the  past,  and  hiding  all  the 
summits.  The  noisy  hilarity  of  these  vigorous 
and  simple-hearted  people  was  offensive  to  him. 
Their  shouts  of  laughter  gave  him  pain.  He 
longed  to  get  away.  He  took  part  in  his  sister's 
wedding  as  a  stranger  might  have  done,  seating 
himself  at  a  corner  of  the  shed  near  the  door. 
Even  the  sight  of  Marie  and  Louis  Fauvepre,  so  tran- 
quilly happy  and  whispering  to  each  other  at  the  end 
of  the  table,  irritated  him  and  drove  him  outside. 


"[THIS,   MY   SON"  295 

Toward  the  end  of  supper,  Antoinette  and 
another  young  girl  rose,  and  together,  hand  in 
hand,  they  went  and  stood  before  the  bride. 
There  was  a  partial  lull  of  tongues.  The  girls, 
both  very  shy,  looked  at  each  other,  in  order  that 
they  might  start  together,  and  then,  with  their 
untrained  voices,  drawling  the  final  syllables,  they 
began  to  sing  a  song  which  their  grandmothers  had 
sung  more  than  a  hundred  years  before: 

The  nightingale  of  the  woods. 
The  wild  nightingale, 
The  nightingale  of  love 
Who  sings  night  and  day! 

He  says  in  his  beautiful  song, 
In  his  pretty  language; 
Maidens,  marry, 
For  marriage  is  sweet. 

At  this  moment  Louis  Fauve'pre's  wife,  over- 
come with  emotion,  as  tradition  also  required,  hid 
her  face  in  her  cambric  pocket-handkerchief.  All 
the  guests  now  rose  and  climbed  on  to  the  benches 
to  see  the  bride  in  tears.  And  in  the  commotion 
that  ensued  Pierre  made  his  escape. 

He  suddenly  found  himself  under  the  blue  night- 
sky.  He  withdrew  to  the  end  of  the  threshing- 
floor.  How  calm  everything  was  down  there  in 
the  valley!  How  peacefully  it  lay  sleeping  under 
the  moon!  At  these  few  paces  away  from  the 
shed,  the  pitiable  buzz  of  human  enjoyment  was 
so  lost  in  the  great  silence  that  one  would  hardly 
have  known  that  an  entertainment  was  there 
drawing  to  its  hilarious  close.  The  bushes  bent 


296  "THIS,   MY  SON" 

beneath  the  weight  of  their  dew-laden  leaves.  A 
pungent,  marshlike  odour  rose  from  the  fields 
beside  the  Evre.  And  what  numberless  stars 
there  were  overhead!  The  three  in  the  Belt  of 
Orion  shone  out  from  among  them  all,  and  their 
eyes,  that  were  once  so  full  of  dreams,  were 
now  looking  down  filled  with  an  infinite  pity. 
Pierre  could  not  draw  his  own  away  from 
them. 

He  remembered  his  promise,  and  began  walking 
slowly  along  the  path  that  led  to  Melie's  house. 
His  shadow,  thrown  on  the  bank  trampled  by  the 
animals,  followed  him  all  the  way.  La  Geniviere 
lay  hidden  behind  the  thick  curtain  of  trees,  and 
the  fiddle  was  beginning  again  to  send  forth  its 
weak,  squeaky  tune. 

Pierre  Noellet,  this  is  a  dangerous  path  for  you. 
You  know  it  well.  You  know  the  exact  spot 
before  you  reach  Melie's  house,  whence  you  can 
see  La  Landehue,  its  lawns,  even  its  flower-beds, 
looking  gray  to-night  in  the  moonlight,  beside  the 
bright  gravel  paths.  In  your  sad  frame  of  mind 
you  will  not  be  able  to  pass  the  opening  without 
looking  beyond  it.  What  would  you  do,  if  you 
were  to  see  him  and  her,  back  this  evening  from 
Italy  and  taking  possession  of  their  kingdom,  in 
the  avenue  that  curves  round  to  the  fields,  walking 
slowly  side  by  side,  as  the  newly  happy  love  to 
wander  amid  the  things  of  the  past? 

And  it  is  indeed  no  fancy!  The  marks  of  the 
carriage  wheels  are  fresh  upon  the  gravel.  And 
see!  Those  two  shadowy  figures,  so  close  to  each 
other  that  at  moments  they  look  like  one — they 


tc 


THIS,   MY  SON"  297 


are  Jules  de  Ponthual  and  Madeleine.  They  are 
coming  his  way. 

Pierre  jumped  over  the  hedge,  and  darted 
behind  a  clump  of  chestnut  trees  that  stood  about 
fifty  yards  from  the  avenue.  What  was  he  going 
to  do?  Did  he  know  himself?  He  had  run  for- 
ward directly  she  had  appeared.  He  must  see 
her  again,  even  if  on  another's  arm.  Should  he 
suffer  for  it,  die  for  it,  he  must  look  on  her  once 
more! 

He  had  completely  forgotten  you,  Me*lie  Rain- 
ette,  who  were  waiting  for  him!  He  remained 
hidden  beside  a  cluster  of  saplings,  his  head  thrust 
forward  through  the  leaves,  with  his  eyes  turned 
to  the  left. 

The  darkness  was  thick  around  him,  but  on  that 
side  the  branches  had  been  cut  so  as  to  form  an 
arch,  through  which  could  be  seen  a  corner  of  the 
park  illuminated  by  the  soft,  sleeping  light. 

The  young  couple  came  slowly  toward  him. 
Soon  he  was  able  to  catch  the  sound  of  their  two 
voices. 

"That  playing  of  bagpipes  and  fiddle,"  said 
Ponthual,  "makes  me  long  to  go  on  to  La  Geni- 
viere.  Will  you  come  and  see  them  dance?  It 
would  be  amusing." 

Madeleine  paused  at  the  edge  of  the  patch  of 
shadow  thrown  across  the  path  by  the  copse  wood. 
She  looked  up  at  her  husband  with  a  little  coaxing 
pout  of  reproach.  Some  indescribable  and  fleeting 
charm  was  added  to  the  severe  beauty  of  her 
face  and  form  by  the  pale  light  that  fell  around 
her. 


298  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"Amusing,  perhaps,"  she  said;  "but  it  is  so  nice 
out  here!" 

"How  right  you  are!"  he  answered.  And  he 
drew  her  along,  laughing  in  his  loud,  happy  way. 

"Do  you  know  what  has  become  of  Pierre 
Noellet?"  he  added  after  they  had  gone  a  little 
farther. 

"Nothing  very  good,  I  fear.  We  have  seen 
nothing  of  him  since  December.  My  father  has 
written  to  him  twice,  but  there  has  been  no  reply." 

"Really?    I  can  hardly  believe  it." 

"What  is  more,  he  took  the  trouble  to  go  to  the 
Don  Juan,  and  there  he  was  told  that  Pierre 
Noellet  no  longer  came  regularly  to  work,  and  that 
when  he  did,  he  was  in  such  a  state." 

"You  don't  say  so!" 

"A  boy  to  whom  we  showed  every  kindness, 
even  admitting  him  into  the  family  circle.  You 
can  understand  that  my  father  did  not  persist  in 
his  inquiries." 

"Poor  Noellet,  what  a  pity!  To  come  to  an  end 
like  that!" 

"It  is,  indeed;  but  only  what  might  have  been 
expected." 

"How?  He  was  intelligent,  and  had  very  good 
wits." 

She  gave  a  little  smile. 

"Quite  so;  but  not  better  than  many  others. 
And  with  it  all  he  had  such  a  wild,  extravagant 
ambition,  thinking  that  he  could  take  the  world 
by  storm  in  a  way  that  is  only  possible  to  those 
of  very  exceptional  talents,  and  even  then  they 
have  to  work  for  some  time.  For  one  who  sue- 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  299 

ceeds  there  are  a  hundred  who  fail  miserably. 
He  is  a  proof  of  it." 

"  There  is  more  truth  in  what  you  say  than  you 
think,  perhaps,"  replied  Ponthual  rather  gravely; 
"an  extravagant  ambition — that  may  well  be  so. 
I  confess  I  was  very  much  struck  by  something 
that  happened,  and  which  I  cannot  help  at  this 
moment  associating  with  his  rapid  downfall, 
which  does  not  look  unlike  desperation.  You 
remember  the  28th,  when  I  told  Noellet  about 
our  coming  marriage,  that  last  time  we  saw 
him?" 

"Yes." 

"He  turned  pale  and  trembled;  his  whole  face 
changed.  At  first  I  attributed  his  emotion  to 
the  surprise  caused  him  by  my  news.  But,  on 
my  faith,  I  begin  to  think  there  was  something 
more." 

They  were  just  then  passing  the  spot  where 
Pierre  lay  hidden. 

Madeleine  looked  questioningly  at  her  husband. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  have  no  need  to  tell  you  that 
you  are  attractive,  and  perhaps  that  unhappy 
boy " 

"How  can  you!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  touch  of 
temper.  "You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying. 
He  has  great  ambition,  as  I  believe;  but  not  to  the 
extent  of  forgetting  our  relative  positions.  When 
all's  said  and  done,  Pierre  Noellet  never  was,  and 
never  will  be,  anything  but  a  peasant." 

And  they  passed  on,  their  talk  drifting  to  other 
subjects. 


300  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

As  they  were  leaving  the  shade  of  the  trees  and 
turning  into  the  quiet  light  of  the  fields  they  heard 
behind  them  a  rustling  among  the  leaves.  Made- 
leine, frightened,  pressed  close  to  her  husband. 
Ponthual  turned  leisurely  round  to  listen,  looking 
in  the  direction  of  the  thicket.  He  could  hear 
that  the  sound  was  going  farther  off. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  said,  shrugging  his 
shoulders;  "it's  only  some  frightened  animal 
running  away." 

The  trees  were  too  thick  for  them  to  distinguish 
the  figure  of  Pierre  Noellet,  who  was  fleeing  in 
despair.  "He  never  was,  and  never  will  be,  any- 
thing but  a  peasant."  And  it  was  she  who  had 
«aid  it !  She  who  was  laughing  at  him !  She  had 
not  only  never  detected  the  love  which  had 
driven  the  farmer's  son  away  from  the  land,  and 
had  been  the  cause  of  so  many  struggles  and  so 
much  suffering;  it  had  never  even  entered  her 
head  that  it  was  possible.  Not  only  had  he  wasted 
and  lost  his  youth,  but  he  was  scorned,  despised  by 
her  whom  he  had  loved,  condemned  to  be  nothing 
for  ever  but  a  peasant  in  her  eyes  and  those  of  the 
world!  The  only  word  of  pity  vouchsafed  to  him 
had  come  from  Jules  de  Ponthual! 

He  ran  forward  like  a  madman,  straight  ahead 
across  the  fields.  He  fled,  pursued  by  the  vision 
of  their  happiness  and  by  this  contemptuous  judg- 
ment passed  on  all  his  past  ambition. 

Thinking,  no  doubt,  that  his  wild  race  would 
bring  him  again  to  the  spot  where  he  had  climbed 
the  bank  with  ease,  he  unfortunately  mistook  the 
direction,  and  came  to  the  hedge  where  it  faced 


"THIS,   MY  SON"  301 

Melie's  garden.  At  this  point  the  field  rose  six 
feet  or  more  above  the  foot-path.  In  spite  of  the 
delirious  condition  he  was  in,  Pierre  Noellet  by 
daylight  would  have  seen  the  gulf  yawning  in  front 
of  him.  But  blinded  by  his  tears  and  deceived 
by  the  shadow  of  the  immense  stumps  of  trees  that 
lined  the  path,  he  saw  nothing.  Suddenly  the 
ground  failed  beneath  his  feet,  and,  unable  to 
check  his  impetuous  flight,  he  fell  with  violence  into 
the  hollow  below.  A  cry  rang  through  the  night. 

Jules  and  Madeleine,  already  some  way  off, 
stopped  a  moment  to  listen  in  the  direction 
whence  the  cry  had  come,  but,  hearing  nothing 
farther,  went  on  toward  the  park. 

But,  close  by,  in  the  little  garden,  some  one  was 
watching,  waiting  for  a  promised  visit. 

On  hearing  Pierre's  cry,  Melie  ran  to  the  gate  and 
opened  it,  and  went  down  the  garden  steps.  There 
on  the  ground  before  her  lay  Pierre,  face  down- 
ward, his  feet  in  the  shadow,  the  upper  part  of  his 
body  in  the  light.  He  was  lying  motionless. 

Melie  called  him  by  name:  "Pierre!  Pierre 
Noellett!"  Only  the  great  silence  of  the  path 
answered  her. 

Overcome  with  terror,  she  knelt  beside  him  on  the 
stones,  leaning  over  him  and  calling  again, ' '  Pierre ! " 

And  as  he  still  gave  no  sign  of  life,  she  put  back 
his  arms,  that  had  fallen  forward,  and  gently 
lifted  his  head  a  little  way  from  the  ground.  Alas, 
she  drew  back  her  hands  covered  with  blood! 
Pierre,  white  as  death  and  with  closed  eyes,  lay  in  a 
pool  of  blood,  his  forehead  battered  in  by  the  stones. 

Melie  Rainette  wanted  to  call  for  help.    She  was 


302  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

alone.  She  had  not  the  strength  to  carry  or  drag 
him  as  far  as  the  house ;  and  this  wound,  this  red 
stream  staining  the  white  stones  one  by  one.  She 
must  get  assistance.  Perhaps  some  one  in  the 
village  would  hear  her,  but  she  could  not  make  her 
voice  speak;  she  felt 'herself  beginning  to  swoon. 

The  sound  of  a  man's  approaching  footsteps 
roused  her. 

It  was  the  fanner  from  La  Geniviere,  who,  un- 
easy at  his  son's  abrupt  manner  of  leaving  the 
feast,  had  come  out  in  search  of  him. 

"Oh,  come,"  she  cried,  "he  has  fallen  jumping 
on  to  the  path;  he  is  hurt;  come  quickly!" 

"Was  it  his  cry  I  heard  just  now,  Melie?" 

"Yes,  I  was  close  by;  I  heard  him,  and  I  ran  at 
once.  He  hasn't  moved  since,  and  see  how  he  is 
losing  blood;  he  is  going,  perhaps " 

"Poor  lad!"  said  the  farmer,  going  up  to  his  son; 
"and  I  thought  he  had  run  away  into  the  Mauges." 
Then  he  added:  "Help  me  to  carry  him  away 
from  here,  Melie,  for  I  am  getting  old." 

He  lifted  Pierre  in  his  arms,  and  with  Melie's 
assistance  carried  him  inside  the  gate,  and  laid  him 
on  the  mossy  slope  that  ran  round  the  garden. 
Then  the  father  stooped,  and  took  his  son's  head 
on  to  his  breast.  The  moon  was  shining  on  the 
little  bank,  and  ah,  now  in  the  full  light,  how 
much  more  terrible  it  was!  The  blood,  how  it 
poured  from  the  wound  streaming  over  the  farm- 
er's gay  waistcoat,  which  was  still  adorned  on  one 
side  with  a  flower  from  Marie's  nosegay.  Melie 
had  run  to  fetch  water  to  bathe  that  broad,  deep 
gash,  whence  the  life-blood  was  escaping. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  303 

The  farmer,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  rough 
wounds  caused  by  scythes  and  bill-hooks,  was  not 
at  first  so  alarmed  as  Melie;  but  when  he  saw  that 
Pierre  continued  motionless,  and  that  his  breath- 
ing was  growing  fainter,  he  was  seized  with  anguish. 
Trembling  and  in  tears,  he  looked  at  the  girl  whom 
he  had  driven  away,  and  whom  he  met  again  so 
unexpectedly  at  this  crisis  of  troubles. 

"Ah!"  he  cried,  "perhaps  he  will  never  come  to 
again!" 

At  that  moment  Pierre  opened  his  eyes,  and 
said  slowly,  and  with  great  effort: 

"Father,  are  you  there?" 

His  eyes  were  fixed  and  glazed;  they  could  no 
longer  see. 

' '  Yes,  my  son, ' '  said  the  farmer.  "  I  am  here ;  I 
am  holding  you.  Do  you  feel  my  arm,  there,  under 
your  shoulder?  Are  you  badly  hurt,  my  dear  boy?  " 

"Where  is  Jacques?"  said  Pierre. 

Jacques  had  also  asked,  "Where  is  my  brother, 
the  abbe"?" 

The  farmer  saw  that  he  was  wandering,  and  not 
wishing  to  agitate  him,  replied: 

"He  is  far  away." 

"Yes,  yes,  far  away,  far  away.  I  did  him 
harm,  and  you,  too.  Forgive — and  you  must  for- 
give Me"lie,  too — she  did  not  lead  me  wrong — No, 
Melie  is  good.  You  know,  the  one  who  gives  us  the 
palms.  This  for  you — for  your  mother — for  An- 
toinette." 

He  paused,  seized  with  a  convulsive  shudder. 

It  was  evident  that  death  was  near.  The  un- 
happy father  had  seen  too  many  die  to  doubt  it. 


304  "THIS,   MY   SON" 

"Run,  Melie,"  he  said,  "run  quickly,  and  bring 
the  priest;  our  boy  is  dying!" 

She  threw  down  the  handkerchief  stained  with 
blood,  and  rushed  away.  She  had  hardly  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  garden  when  Pierre  again  moved 
his  lips. 

"I  cannot  hear,"  said  Julien,  "speak  again;  if 
you  can,  say  it  again,  dear." 

And  he  put  his  ear  closer  to  the  bleeding  head  of 
his  child. 

"He  will  not  have  tune  to  come,"  murmured 
Pierre.  "Give  me  your  rosary." 

The  old  farmer,  sobbing,  felt  in  his  pocket,  and 
put  the  rosary  in  the  wounded  man's  hand. 

With  a  last  effort,  Pierre  put  up  his  hand  to  find 
his  mouth,  pressed  the  little  black  cross  to  his  lips, 
and  with  his  kiss  upon  it  passed  away. 

At  that  moment  a  confused  sound  of  cheering 
rose  in  the  direction  of  La  Geniviere,  and  the  sky 
above  the  farm  was  lighted  by  a  red  flame  that 
sent  up  its  smoke  in  wreaths  of  cloud  toward  the 
stars.  They  were  burning  the  Maypole.  The 
shouts  were  the  final  salutes  in  honour  of  Marie's 
wedding. 

The  festivities  were  drawing  to  a  close  as,  alone 
in  the  Rainette  garden,  the  farmer  laid  the  head  of 
his  dead  son  back  upon  the  bank. 


The  next  morning  at  this  Geniviere,  that  had 
been  so  abruptly  plunged  into  mourning,  Melie 
Rainette  rose  with  the  first  gray  light  of  dawn  from 
beside  the  bed  on  which  Pierre  Noellet  was  laid. 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  305 

For  many  long  hours  she  had  kept  her  watch;  she 
had  been  there  of  her  own  accord,  and  with  the 
permission  of  sorrow,  and  the  farmer  had  knelt 
beside  her  through  the  night,  hardly  aware,  as  it 
seemed,  of  her  presence.  Buried  in  mournful 
stupor,  he  appeared  to  see  and  hear  nothing.  But 
as  she  was  about  to  leave  the  room  he  called  her. 

"Stay,  my  daughter,"  he  said,  and  Me" lie  could 
not  remember  ever  having  heard  him  speak  in  so 
kind  and  tender  a  voice. 

And  as  she  still  hesitated,  not  knowing  what  he 
meant,  he  repeated : 

' '  Stay ;  you  loved  him  as  well  as  we  did,  my  poor 
girl.  Stay  here  in  memory  of  him.  I  have  lost 
my  two  sons — and" — he  looked  as  he  spoke  to- 
ward Louis  Fauvepre,  who  was  standing  in  a 
corner  of  the  room — "one  I  have  found  again; 
you  will  replace  the  other  1" 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


FOUR  months  later  Monsieur  Laubriet  was  driving 
in  his  phaeton  along  the  road  from  Beaupre*au  to 
Fief-Sauvin  on  his  way  to  Landehue.  As  the 
horses  were  walking  up  the  hill  at  the  entrance  to 
the  town,  he  caught  sight  of  the  farmer  from  La 
Geniviere  in  a  field  to  the  right  of  the  road. 

Julien  Noellet's  hair  had  turned  quite  white. 
He  hardly  did  any  work,  leaving  the  ploughing  to 
others,  and  contenting  himself  with  breaking  the 
clods,  which  he  did  in  a  dreamy  way,  and  with 
many  pauses  between  his  feeble  blows. 

Monsieur  Laubriet  waved  his  hand  to  him. 

"Good  day,  my  poor  Noellet!" 

The  peasant  lifted  his  hat  without  replying. 
But  not  because  this  compassionate  address 
affected  him  at  all.  It  merely  disturbed  that  long 
reverie  of  the  aged,  who  are  alone  for  many  hours 
occupied  with  easy  tasks.  He  leaned  on  his  hoe 
with  his  arms  crossed,  and  looked  toward  his  farm. 

The  harvest  had  been  a  good  one  for  Julien 
Noellet.  His  granaries  were  full.  From  where 
he  stood  he  could  see  the  top  of  the  large  yellow 
haystack  between  the  trees  that  were  still  green 
with  leaf.  And  although  the  autumn  had  hardly 
begun,  the  ploughed  land  gave  token  that  young 
and  active  hands  had  undertaken  the  direction 
of  the  farm. 

306 


"THIS,   MY   SON"  307 

Louis  Fauve"pre,  Julien's  worthy  son  and  suc- 
cessor, was  at  this  moment  at  the  other  end  of 
the  field.  Six  oxen,  as  in  former  days,  were 
drawing  the  furrows  across  the  violet-coloured 
earth.  Louis  Fauve"pre  was  at  the  plough; 
neither  his  gait  nor  his  style  of  ploughing  were 
similar  to  that  of  the  old  man,  who  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  leaning  far  forward  to  keep  his 
eye  on  a  certain  spot  between  the  muzzles  of 
his  beasts.  Very  upright,  with  a  graceful  ease  of 
strength,  he  was  holding  the  cast-iron  handles  of 
a  new  plough  without  any  sign  of  effort. 

Having  reached  the  end  of  the  field,  he  ordered 
the  ploughman  to  lead  the  beasts  to  the  grassy 
border  under  the  hedge,  for  Marie,  his  young  wife, 
the  real  mistress  of  the  white  house,  had  just 
arrived  with  the  three  o'clock  soup,  and  she  was 
standing  waiting,  with  her  usual  look  of  quiet 
and  dignified  happiness,  a  little  red  in  the  face, 
and  more  out  of  breath  than  seemed  warranted  by 
so  short  a  walk. 

The  old  farmer,  as  he  noticed  this,  slowly  drew 
himself  up,  and  upon  his  face,  that  had  suddenly 
brightened,  the  face  of  the  grandfather,  dawned 
the  smile  of  immortal  hope. 

THE  END 


Books  by  RENE  BAZIN 

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THIS,  MY  SON 

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